Today I walked passed a harmonica player. Well, I say player, he was playing, but I shouldn’t let that define him. I mean, he might want to be a deep sea diver or a cosmologist and I wouldn’t want to pigeonhole him. But today he was playing his harmonica*. He was sat on the wall as I strolled by and I detected a small exasperated sigh mid-puff. Almost immediately after I encountered a smashed Easter egg on the ground.

*I assume his; it might have been on loan.

Sights such as this usually send me into OCD mode and I was instantly worried that a dog walker would come along, their dog would eat it all and then die instantly right there on the pavement. The harmonica player would then have to play some sort of lament for Rover and a passing hipster would remove his man bun and hold it to his chest in respect. If it wasn’t for the embarrassment of doing it in front of the harmonica player I probably would have stopped and tried to clear it all up. But in view of his watchful eye I carried on. I then mused that it wasn’t dark chocolate so probably not as lethal and that any walker would presumably stop said pooch before they could eat a deadly dose. And thus my day was saved from ruin.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a man with three identical looking dogs then appeared in front of me. As a reminder that my OCD is habit rather than based on any actual genuine fear, instead of worrying about their impending egg shaped obstacle, I only marveled at their appearance. It was as if the man had thought, yes I like this dog, I’m going to create a couple of back-ups just in case*. But then I felt that was quite superficial of me. After all, I have two black cats that other people can’t seem to tell apart, despite it seeming obvious to me. And besides, I didn’t get the second one because he matched the first**. I got them because there was something about their character I liked. Black cats are reportedly often overlooked for re-homing in comparison with their more extravagantly patterned counterparts, but my part in addressing this imbalance was purely coincidental. So I realised this was probably the same for the man. There was something about their personalities he responded to. And dogs being pack animals it makes sense to group them up, they always seem happier that way.

*Which reminds me I need to update my hard drive.  

**or because black goes with everything, although it is a delightful bonus.

So it was this odd combination of three things in quick succession that pleased me. It allowed me to create a whole back story in my head as I resumed my journey. I imagined the smashed egg was the Easter bunny’s wife finding out he’d had an affair, “and take your stupid work with you!” Perhaps he was having it off with the harmonica player. Or he’d brought in the player to ease the tension. But the egg was in too many pieces to have only been smashed once, so I then imagined two tiny flamenco dancers in full exotic dress stomping on it to a rhythmic beat (accompanied by harmonica). They would then act as a barrier to the approaching dogs, preventing any lapping up of the evil eggshell. They may even mount the dogs and charge in unison at the man walking them, punishing him for his evil duplication experiments.

All this mind-running silliness reminded me of a story I’ve been dipping in and out of for years. Sort of set in our world but not. Almost exactly the same, but slightly off somehow, and in as delightfully silly a way you can imagine. It’s how I wish the world was sometimes. We go about our business as normal, but there’s always something ever so slightly surreal going on in the background. But that was always the easy part, it was the main plot I struggled with. As with a lot of what I write it’s trying to be too many things at once.  That’s why little meanderings like this are important. Blogs are allowed to be a random stream of nonsense thought. A way I can get it all out of my system before I settle down to concentrate on a single main theme. Time will tell if it works I guess.

But in the meantime, days like this are why I walk into town rather than get the bus. If I haven’t got a clear idea for my day’s work, a walk will inevitably help. You need to see the quirks around you, be open to the opportunities. So if I’m not pressed for time, I’ll walk. After all, you never know when the next harmonica playing, flamenco dancing dog is waiting for you. Just don’t tell the Easter Bunny’s wife.

It’s impossible for me to order a coffee without sounding like a twat. Each order is therefore automatically followed with an apology. “Can I get a [insert wankery here] please? Sorry, thanks.”

It’s just so overly complicated, but ultimately comes from a good place. Having learned more about the dairy industry, I’m trying to cut down on my intake as an attempt to be more ethical. I like cows. In many ways I identify with them. We’re both curious, prefer the company of the herd than to be alone, have strange voices and an awkward walk. So the first complication is I have to specify soy or almond rather than regular milk (not coconut, never coconut, it’s not fooling anyone). Fair enough you say, a lot of people do, lots of people are lactose intolerant and Brighton is full of vegans (and most of them have strange voices and awkward walks also), so what’s the beef? (excuse the pun cows)

The problem is that that’s just the start of it. Next I have to specify that I only want one shot of espresso, not two as comes standard. If I have two my similarity with cows only grows but in a less pleasant manner. You see I have IBS. This I can control relatively easily with my diet and avoiding too much stress, but too much caffeine will set it off. Then I’m producing enough methane to heat a small town. So to save myself and indeed the welfare of those around me, I stipulate a single shot.

The above reasons are ethical and medical and right now you’re hopefully thinking, that’s pretty reasonable. But now things get a bit silly. You see, I’m not sure I actually like the taste of coffee. Yup. “So why the f*ck do you order it you stupid bint?” An astute question. Let me elaborate.

I find coffee on its own too bitter. I like tea but get bored of ordering when out with friends, particularly when modern coffee houses have a huge selection of all kinds of crazy concoctions. So I thought one day, hey, you’re a living breathing human so therefore you like chocolate, why not try a mocha? That should lessen the bitterness and make a nice change. So I did. And if you only have one shot, as my stomach decrees, the bitter / chocolate ratio shifts even further. I could just order a hot chocolate, but passed a certain age it seems a bit childish. But a mocha well, that’s hot chocolate for grown-ups isn’t it?

And mocha is awesome, particularly on a cold winter’s day. But they’re also quite filling, verging on meal replacement. So sometimes you want something distinctly more ‘drinky’. So a latte also seemed like a reasonable choice, this time the milk / coffee ratio shifting. But on its own there’s still none of that sweetness I crave. Now of course you can get any syrup known to man. From the predictable vanilla or caramel to the slightly more challenging cinnamon or gingerbread to the downright ridiculous. “I’ll have the pumpkin spiced wombat please with a sprinkling of chilli newborn.”

Unfortunately the sugar content of most of these syrups is enough to give a t-rex palpitations (and with their tiny little arms they can’t fan their faces properly) so needless to say apart from immediately after being as hyper as a springer spaniel on acid, I’m also about a stone heavier than I used to be.  Now a lot of these places have sugar-free versions of the caramel or vanilla, but I’m already stipulating soy, single shot and syrup, if I have to add sugar free as well the humiliation factor starts to outweigh the desire for the drink so I just can’t bring myself to bring anything else to the caffeinated party.

In view of all the above I know I should just stop drinking coffee altogether, but it’s become an addiction now. A combination of caffeine and sugar is required on a daily basis or I become what I’ve termed  ‘unmanageable’. After all, I work in the vicinity of other people. And it’s just become what I run on now. Like getting petrol I must stop and ‘fill up’ regularly. At both establishments  I feel equally depressed by the price. On both occasions I also feel a bit guilty about the environment. And much like my aged car itself, I always feel a little violated at the procedure but ultimately satisfied when it’s all over.

Most petrol stations have coffee stops in them now. Maybe just a small mocha while I’m here…

One of the perils of cat cohabitation is that you will never be without at least one granule of cat litter nestled in your shoe and / or sock at any one time.  To be fair, this is partly due to my own combo laziness of failing to hoover more regularly and never being arsed to bring my clean laundry back upstairs. Hence I am always wandering downstairs to retrieve fresh socks bare-footed.

With what can only be described as plant-like reflexes first thing in the morning I inevitably don’t realise said grain until I have already started walking. This would be easily rectified were it not that my boots take an age to get on and off.  This is again due to another deadly combo, this time a biological one, of having wide feet but narrow ankles, thus creating a pyramid-like effect from the shin down. I have to double knot and properly restrict the blood flow to my lower limbs to create an attachment I am happy with.

The aforementioned laziness precludes me from removing my shoes but on the rare occasion I do, this does little to rectify the situation. Once the offending article has been removed (usually by removing sock as well as shoe and effecting a vigorous rubbing action akin to that of a teenage boy), after a few more steps, and in a Hydra–like homage, two more have taken its place.

The litter tray has a hood over it which should prevent too many granules from escaping, but my feline friend seems to have accepted this as a challenge rather than aid-memoir, and has been working on her rear kicks. She has another tray upstairs, this one more logically placed in the smallest room, but this contains a different eco-friendly cat litter made from natural ingredients. So naturally she tries to eat it. It’s not until I sufficiently mix it with the regular kind does she finally get the idea, but the point of the eco-friendly one is that you can flush the clumps directly down the toilet without clogging the u-bend. But if it’s mixed with one that can’t, you’re just left with the same problem, although now at least with a pleasing two-tone effect.

My other cat goes pretty much exclusively outside and judging by the relatively untarnished nature of my lawn, in other peoples’ gardens. I like to think he finds a neutral patch of grass between abodes but in my heart of hearts I know the truth. Lucky for me there are several black cats in the area and he’s so stealthy I doubt my neighbours would be able to accurately identify him in a line-up. “That’s the one officer, him, he killed my azaleas.” But I can’t imagine him being caught even if they could. He’s like a parkour enthusiast mixed with the bus from speed. He can’t go less than 50mph or he’ll explode. Must be his breed. They say he’s a common shorthair, but I know he’s really a ninja cross. With a bit of bastard thrown in.

What always annoys me are the people who say that hunting is their way of bringing you gifts. If that were so, he would drop it when I chase him half way round the house shouting ‘let go you furry fucker’. The strange growl noise he makes at the taste of real meat in the context of leftovers is adorable. In the context of a dead pigeon is a warning siren, my alarm clock to leave my comfy bed and assess the carnage below. To be fair, it is not a very regular occurrence and I am of course aware that it is just “in their nature”, but you’re not the ones picking regurgitated bits of nature out of your rug at three in the morning.

That being said, I couldn’t imagine my life without the pair of them. Despite the reputation their species has, they are exceptionally loyal. When I was away for a month with work at the Edinburgh Fringe, my housemate reported Meg rubbing herself on the wet towel I’d left on my bed and licking the phone when she heard my voice. Gus will follow me to the bus stop, escort me back home, and run to me when the fireworks start up because it’s where he feels safest. So I will remind myself of these facts, the next time I feel that little irritation in my shoe.