Oh, Demon Cat. No other member of the Chiswick tribe will get their own alphabetical entry in the survival guide bar Demon Cat. But Demon Cat is the only ‘person’ (yes, I know he’s a cat) to be identified – that cat photo on my homepage really is him (although admittedly, he doesn’t look very demonic there.) Plus, Breakfast Girl requested that I wrote about Demon Cat when she commented on an earlier blog post so here we are.
If there were three things you should know about my relationship with Demon Cat, this is it:
1) I most certainly did not agree with Slish and Wonder Boy that using the hoover behind Demon Cat was a good idea when it clearly scared the bejesus out of him. I trust that it still does.
2) The family did the annual summer pilgrimage to the States twice while I lived there, which meant I had full-reign (yes, I know) of the house while they were away. OK, well, not quite. Of course Demon Cat also stayed. I kept him alive with water and food (although he only eats solid cat grub. Crazy Yank told me the vet said: “That’s all he needs.” Demon Cat would eat outside my room and sound particularly demonic doing so. Crunch, crunch, crunch, was thankfully the sound of fish flavoured food and not the sound of human bones cracking.) Still, it was during these times when we were on our own that we bonded most. But not when each morning before work, I had to toss him out of the house all day until I came back (there are no cat flaps at the house.) He’d sleep in Wonder Boy’s top bunk bed and would not budge. I’d get some cuddly toy and nudge him. When that wouldn’t work, I’d have to make my own demonic sounds and clap to move him. These actions, combined with said nudging with a one foot tall dinosaur, usually did the trick.
3) Demon Cat was the last one to say goodbye to me when I left the house. The others were in the States and I moved out the day before Crazy Yank arrived back. I remember sitting with him on the doormat and talking to him. Telling him I was going and that I’ll miss him. He was in one of his rare moods where he seemed to enjoy human contact. He began to purr. And then I shed a tear or two as I opened the door and he darted out into the August sunshine.
I (think I) know what you’re all thinking. You can’t have C without Crazy Yank. Right? Wrong. Such is Crazy Yank’s all encompassing character that he can’t be restrained to a single alphabetical entry. His omnipotence and omniscience means that he’s always here. On this blog. Not that he’s God or a ghost that’s haunting me (I hope not, anyway.) But he could be Big Brother. (I jest or once again, I hope I’m joking.)
No, instead, I’m going to talk about confidence. In terms of having confidence and being told things in confidence. To be honest, it’s more about the latter. And because of that, I could simply say no more because that would prove my lesson here that what a lodger is told must be always kept in confidence as, and when, it requires such discretion. As much as I found myself being consulted as rarely, or in fact as equally, as Demon Cat (sorry, Demon Cat but it’s true) about a lot of household choices, something I still feel most honoured, and also a little amused, about is that on more than one occasion, I was in the fortunate position of being a confidant for Crazy Yank, Wonder Boy and Slish. Sometimes this would happen simultaneously either about the same subject or something completely unrelated. What I found truly fascinating about this is that this often meant that, in terms of knowledge and what makes each individual tick, I was able to understand each person and the particular situations from a number of different angles and with a far greater understanding than any of the others did. I felt lucky being in such a position if not a little overloaded from time to time.
And having confidence? Well, when you’re lodging, confidence is of course important for integrating and building a rapport with the rest of the family to the best of your ability. It’s having the confidence to realise that you still have a life and that you’re not living with your friends because of bad timing, different budgets and contrasting preferences in terms of location. And finally, it’s quite frankly having the confidence to resist rising to the tiresome bait and/or forcing out a laugh when your twenty-something friends insinuate that you have a boyfriend nearly the same age as your father and have adopted two children (and not forgetting a demonic cat) for the umpteenth time.