March 10.  copied from handwritten journal.  

No Lionel.

Possibility Matisse has CRF (chronic renal failure).  Have finally had to take notice of what I've been trying to ignore - large puddles of urine (either in the box or out).  This morning watched him return to the water bowl 3 times for big drinks.  I can no longer pretend.  Will call tomorrow and book him in for blood and urine tests.  Not sure where yet.  The disadvantage of having been a vet nurse is knowing what goes on behind the closed door.  Can't decide either whether I should go to Laidley or UQ.  Gatton Vet is out of the question after how the staff were treated by the new owner.  Think I'll go to Laidley.

He's not underweight, far from it, nor is he dehydrated.  The polydipsia cannot be ignored however.  At the same time they can check for FLUTI, althought that seems the less likely of the two possible scenarios.

One thing is for certain, tomorrow will not be fun.

What I originally wanted to write about was the unique voice of English writers.  Reading The Wah Wah Diaries, Richard E. Grant's account of the making of his autobiographicly based film Wah Wah.  It'a voice that I, anglophile that I am, find endlessly appealing,.  "She...clucks welcome noises of enthusiasm when I suggest spooling forth the the synopsis between mouthfuls of Caesar salad."  Or  "...trying to hide the fact from all my panic stations that red alert might be a mere pudding away."  Or  "A vast pile emerged {of script notes] that looked ominously like a tax return in the middle of a nervous breakdown" and finally, " 'But you haven't even written it up properly yet,' said my wife, only just managing to suppress a healthy snort."

They have this easy breezy self-deprecating humour entirely unique to them.  Is it inherited by the process of osmosis in that land of cold and fog, from PD. Wodehouse?  Is that warmth a natural antidote and protection from the appalling weather?  Stephen Fry has it too - although I know he cites PDW as one of , if not his, favourite author.

American humour seems so baseball bat blunt in comparison.  To be honest I read very little humour so I am making that judgement on the basis of TV sit-cms.  US versus British.  No comparison.  Well, there are different styles - but I'm done with this now.  My mind is too full of Lionel and Matisse and the grieving - for if Matisse has renal failure it's a long slow demise with that horrific decision to be made at the end.  I know I'm okay.  At this point in time, all is well and it is worse than useless fo scare myself with bogeyman from the future - but I am only beginning to try and rein in my thoughts - and they are bucking like mad.

Journals and Blogs and Stuff

There is something quite delicious seeing that my other blog, on Balthazar, had two followers...until I check out the 2nd follower and see it is a sales gimmick masquerading as a delectable young Indian woman.  The other follower still has me mystified.  Perhaps Cordillon hopes I will mirror his compliment and follow his blog on, was it the city of Manchester?  But I'm not that desperate.  Yet.

In the meantime I have made a decision.  It may last as long as the takeaway Thai Richard has dashed into town to get, nevertheless here it is.  I have resurrected my journaling habits of the past 30 years and have decided to keep a written journal.  Yes, that's right.  That soon to be lost skill of hand writing journal entries.  The reasons are twofold.  One, I am a bit muzzled by the fact that writing a blog, despite it's obvious advantages, is public.  My ego cannot be erased that easily nor my sense of propriety.  Knowing that there is the possibility, no matter how remote, of having an audience, I hedge my bets while writing.  I don't write as freely nor as intimately as I always did while keeping a handwritten for-my-eyes-only journal.  The other reason is less easily explained.  I think there are distinct advantages to writing by hand.  Noticed the smell of ink as I wrote today.  I missed that.  Also suspect there is something to the hand, eye, brain connection which is lacking when typing at warp speed on the keyboard (am a fast typist which makes for near instanteous translation of thought to monitor - but is that always a good thing?  I'm not James Joyce with a stream of consciousness facility). 

So I will continue this blog but it will be more a record of day to day events rather than a reflection upon those events.

So today:  Lionel is still missing, this is the third day.  I fear the worst yet hope for the best.  Won't dwell on it any more for there is no advantage to it.  I love him and miss him and pray he's okay.

We are going to take Matisse to the vet for blood and urinalysis.  He's drinking heaps, peeing large amounts - sometimes in the box, often on the floor, so suspect the beginning of CRF (chronic renal failure).  He is not dehydrated, is in excellent condition (perhaps too fat) but his coat is glossy and sleek so hopefully it isn't that but I must know.  He's been on the Prozac for 4 days now - with some diminuation of the spraying (from 4 events to 2) but no extinction as yet.

Am working on a pastel painting taken from two pages of the Baroque Horse magazine.  Hate that I'm copying yet view it as a learning exercise.  Then again, it is already morphing into something quite different than the magazine pictures.  Which is a huge relief.  Huge.

Am going to invest in a digital photo frame (12 inches) so that photos I take can be uploaded and viewed at my leisure.  A brilliant idea I think.  It will be portable, clear and accessible - if I can master the techno-stuff.  Please please please.

So today, no yoga, some painting,  reading and finishing Richard E. Grant's The Wah Wah Diaries (now I understand what a 2nd Director does!) and writing it all up in here.