Fat Sister, King Russell, Leftwing Idiot, Poppy and I, along with our friends Luke and Kirsty, celebrated the start of the New Year with a party at the castle. As midnight struck I was in the middle of a ticcing fit, but I was soon able to join the others.
As well as marking the arrival of 2012, the party was also to say goodbye to Luke and Kirsty, who are moving to Canada in five days.
Kirsty‘s just completed her PhD in disability and sexuality and has got a job in Canada as a research fellow . When she started her thesis she got a kitten named Mr Winston to keep her company. Mr Winston was due to travel to Canada with them, but just after Kirsty graduated, (and a few days after he came third in a prettiest pet competition) Mr Winston tragically died. He’d overdosed on Paracetamol.
All this had happened quite recently and was obviously very distressing for Kirsty. But just like when my mum’s dog died, my tics didn’t respect the normal etiquette surrounding the loss of a beloved pet.
Here are a few of the things I blurted out:
“Humiliation killed the cat.”
“Get the cat guillotine.”
“What noise do dogs make? Woof. What noise do cats make? Miaow. What noise do dead cats make?”
Kirsty was amazingly understanding about it.
This post is dedicated to Kirsty and Luke and to anyone else making big or small changes to their lives this year. And of course to Mr Winston. RIP.