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.

Not the Oscar Wilde

How can one body create so much fluid?  As a somewhat grosser reflection of the rain we're (finally!) getting, I am filling tissue after tissue with ... stuff.  But I wear this head cold proudly.  It's the first since I quit smoking 7 months ago.  I'm whizzing through the stages like greased lightning (or like a phlegm slick greasy pole); sore throat, done, sinus and dripping nose, in progress, congestion and coughing, got it.  If I was still smoking I'd be in real trouble.  As it is I'll have this sucker licked in a few more days.

Was pleasantly surprised to find yoga helps alleviate symptoms.  Maybe it's all the inversions that stir things up.  Haven't practiced today as I tackled the weekly verandah clean so feel a bit grungier and gummed up than usual. 

Must be easily bored in my old age.  Just finished reading a mystery with Oscar Wilde as the detective and found it wanting.  Stumbled on it in the library and thought, hey ho!  This should be a ripper but it was as dull as the daily bed making.  Managed to drag myself to within two pages of the end and then gave up.  Expired of boredom. 

So why?  Why did I find this book so awful?  The book is called Oscar Wilde and the Dead Man's Smile and the author is Gyles Brandreth.  I think it was awful because I didn't believe it.  They were like pawns being moved around the stage (and much of the action took place within the theatre) to advance the story but I didn't care.   They didn't elicit empathy or sympathy.  There were just there, moving here, moving there, saying this, doing that.  Even references to incest, opium, laudanum, hashish, Sarah Bernhardt and self flagellation couldn't whip this dead horse to life. 

Just looked up Mr. Brandreth and see he's very well known in the UK as an entertainer, politician, writer, broadcaster and one man show.  Well, gee.  I'm obviously out of step.  The reviews of his Oscar Wilde books are Wildely complimentary.   So pay no attention to me and my opinion.  I'm in the minority.

As a contrast, I finished Stephen Fry's The Fry Chronicles and loved it.  Funny, erudite, painfully honest (who admits publicly to picking their nose?) yet tinged with  melancholia that his humour can't quite hide.  I am prejudiced of course.  I've had a crush on Stephen Fry since his Blackadder days, notwithstanding his homosexuality (he did say in the book he was only 90% gay so there's always hope).  Last year the ABC ran Jeeves and Wooster, which predates Blackadder, and Fry as Jeeves was understated perfection. I was fated to love Jeeves and Wooster even without Fry as I discovered Wodehouse years ago. It's a love Fry and I share.  Isn't that touching?  Of course I'm happily married and he's (90%) gay so it won't happen but I still adored his book.