Friday, December 30, 2011

Ready for the new job

It occurred to me the other day that I don't really have an attire suitable for the corporate world, lulled as I have been for the last six years into a sartorial sinkhole of jeans and sneakers.

Actually, I lie. It didn't occur to me. And it probably would not have occured to me at all. It was pointed out to me by a gently chiding Delta: "I want to point out, that you don't really have clothes to wear in your new job."
I blinked in panic. Holy crap, he was right.
I ran over to the closet and looked at my sweaters. Yup. Confirmed. Only two that were acceptable to wear anywhere outside of an IT firm.

As $ signs skimmed in a blur of motion past the glazed panes of my eyes, I tried to do a quick mental calc on what I'd need to buy before starting my new job. New sweaters. At least a couple pairs of trousers. Socks that were not in all the bright shades of the rainbow. Shoes. Blacks, browns, colours, boots, pumps, flats. A lot of shoes.

If you must do an extreme makeover of your wardrobe, there's no better time to do it than during the post-Christmas sales. Although be warned: If you do take advantage of those post-christmas sales, be prepared for a wardrobe bejewelled in red spangles. As I learnt.

Which brings me to where I am today. A few new sweaters ("at least have enough clothes for two weeks," Doobie had urged, and Doobie is my Official Advisor on All Things Corporate), a couple new trousers, several new pairs of shoes, a book about project management and a book about M&A.

Bring on the new year!

Saturday, December 24, 2011

The turn of the year

I'm ready for a few changes in my life. And what better time to usher them in than at the turn of the year.

Early in the new year, I start my new job.

Yes. After more than 6 years at my beloved Avanade, I'm ready to forge a new beginning. Avanade's been home to me since I moved to New York. It's been the place I grew up, and graduallly metamorphosed from general HR comic relief to professional(ish) HR bod. It's been years of good friendships and technicolour memories.

But now, at long last, like a baby turtle plunging into the ocean and hoping it can swim, it's time for me to see if I can survive in the world beyond this little tidal pool of Avanade.

The change has, of course, caused me no small amount of consternation. I'm not the most adept at change (as evidenced from Delta and my 'Friay night is Sushi night' - always the same restaurant, always the same sushi). For instance, in my new job, I'll no longer be able to just roll out of bed and turn on my laptop still in my pyjamas. To think I'll actually have to do something as revolutionary as getting dressed and turning up at an office everyday. Imagine! The horror. My life to date has ill-prepared me for such kind of extreme early-morning activity. But all the same. It was inevitable that I had to try something new at some point, and all of a sudden, that point is upon me.

But that new job is still a few weeks out, like a distant light at the end of a long tunnel. And  you know what it's like in this crazy world of Family McDelta; a few weeks can be an eternity. Before I even get to that new job, I still have more pressing and dear events to look forward to: an evening at the comedy club tonight, trying desperately to blend in with the furniture and avoid the comic's beady eye; a Christmas brunch with Dr G, her hubby and their little peanut; a New Years party (at ours, as always, because we're too scared to leave the building on New Years and face the inebriated youths outside) and most importantly - a week of camping and hiking out in Kauai. Kauai! Adventure abounds.

The clock ticks on. A year draws to it's end, and a new one grabs the baton and plunges onwards. Needless to say, regardless of the passive role I continually strive to play in my life, the story continues to unfold around me, sweeping me with it. And just as I did on the rollercoasters as a young whippersnapper, I don a brave smile and hang on for the ride.

Monday, August 01, 2011

Honey number 2

When we returned from our camping trip in Minnesota, we had to dive headfirst into a flurry of cleaning and washing. Delta and I stood side by side, trying to sort through our packing.
"Here, why don't  you take this, unzip the sleeping bags, and load the laundry," Delta told me distractedly, handing me an armful of stuff to sort through.
And then in the next moment, he turned to Queen Jaffa as she strutted past, and his tone melted instantly.
"Hi, honey," he said, his voice caressingly loving, "how's my sweetie pie doing?".

To the cat. I pouted.

"Hey. When did Queen Jaffa become honey, and I'm just the person who helps you with the laundry?!" I demanded, hands on my hips.
Delta gave me the toothy grin of a kid caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
"Oh don't worry, she's just Honey number 2," he tried to reassure me. "You're the real Honey number 1."
"Hmmmph." I was not convinced.

I with a jealous pout as Delta gently picked up Queen Jaffa, gave her a cuddle, and scratched her behind her ear. QJ for her part preened, stretched and yawned, proffering Delta her belly to get tickled. As she rolled over, I caught a glint in her eye.

Yeah, right, she seemed to say. Wouldn't you want to be Honey number 2 like me.

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Boundary Waters, a fairytale experience

Last week, Delta and I finally went canoeing in the Boundary Waters, a trip we'd been planning to take for a couple years now.

We'd known we were going for a few months now, but I'd put off the whole canoeing thing until the trip was almost upon us. And then, a few weeks before our vacation, Delta turned to me and said pointedly, "you know a canoe trip is going to involve portaging, don't you?"
"Yeah, of course," I tried to nonchalantly brush it off.
"You know portaging invovles actually carrying the canoe, right?"
"Right..." my voice had lost it's edge of self confidence now.
"Do you think your arms are strong enough for that?" Delta pressed on.
We both looked down at my arms, which have been used for nothing more strenuous than typing over the past ten years. These ladies were meant for nothing greater than washing my hair. They hung limply down at my sides, like a couple linguine strands from my neck.
Suddenly, I was full of panic. "Delta, what do I do? I'll never be able to carry a canoe!"
"What do you mean?! Go to the gym!"

And so started my new routine at the gym. Arms, core, legs & cardio. Arms, core, legs & cardio. Until suddenly the day was upon us, and we excitedly caught our flight to Duluth, MN. 

As it turns out, portaging can only be done by one person. So Delta was lumped with carrying the canoe after all. 

But enough about portaging, which ultimately turned out to be a relatively small part of the whole experience. If there are just a couple things I took back from our Boundary waters experience, it would be the absolute solitude in nature. And the heartmelting views, simply uncomparable.

A moment of respite, before we launched from one lake to the next.

 Gathering firewood to cook our daily dinner.

 A sunset view from the campsite, drying off on the shore after our evening swim.

 A view of the cove where we had our morning swim

 Ultimately, Delta carried the canoe on his head. I'm still happy I worked on my arms, though.

Each portage point was unique and spectacular in it's own right.

A lazy afternoon reading on the beach

A sudden mid-portage crisis of "I quit! I'm hungry! I'm tired!"

Friday, July 15, 2011

I knows someone famous now

This June, Rohinton played on the Bermuda badminton team for the Island Games 2011. That's right, suckers. I NOW KNOW SOMEONE FAMOUS.

For my American readers - yes, in the rest of the world, Badminton is actually a serious sport. Not just hitting around a birdie in a backyard picnic. I expect that you'll  treat this announcement with the appropriate level of gravity.

So family McDelta, father, mothing, sister, wife, husband, and uncle, all bumbled kit and caboodle to the little known Isle of Wight to cheer for Rohinton.

I dont' blame you if you're scratching your head at the Island Games. I hadn't known what they were before this year, either, before Rohinton's foray into fame. It's basically like the Olympics, or the Asiatics - a large international sports meet that takes place every two years, specifically for island countries. That's right. Not only do those people have all the clean beaches, good weatger and beautiful oceans. They also have their own olympics.

And there he was, our very own Rohinton, representing the country of Bermuda on their badminton team. Delta and I couldn't have been more proud. And so it was that we found ourselves on the flight across the pond to London, the coach to Portsmouth, the ferry to Ryde and the little train to Shanklin, which was to be our home for 4 days while we dove into an intensive international tete a tete in badminton.

A couple of the islands there were decidedly dodgy. Like Aland and Gotland. Delta and I were convinced that some of these were made up - a group of people who had made up an island, flag and national song of their own so they could participate in the Island Games. So we did some nifty googling to confirm the credibility of our oponents. I mean, seriuosly. Aland? Gotland? But as it turned out, they do exist, mere dots on maps though they be.

Family McDelta, taking in some sun at the Island Games parade.


The Island Games parade, not to be underestimated for it's pomp and grandeur.



 Badminton. A real sport, fyi.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

The prodigal child returns

In stealth, I slip back into the room. Somewhat horrified. Somewhat frustrated. But mostly just mortified at my own lack of fortitude. Really, has it been three months? Has it taken me three months to revisit this blog, to come back home?

Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, I slink back to the table red-faced with embarrassment.

Every week, just a few minutes of creativity. A few minutes of introspection, and self-mockery. And yet, for the last three months, I have proved myself to have time for neither. In the same way, frankly, that it seems I never have time for cleaning. Or laundry. Or the dishes.

There is no reason. There is no excuse. And more importantly, I've missed my dear blog terribly, so it all really doesn't make any sense. In typical fashion, I've foisted myself again.

And so this, here, is my mid-year resolution. A coy homecoming.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

A month of travel

In the Wit Hotel in Chicago. Lovely little place, they gave me cookies as a welcome present. I was excited - until I found out they were orange flavored. Seriously. Who gives orange flavoured cookies??! I ate them anyway.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

New Rule: please let me know when your birthday is, because I have no intention to remember by myself

As we do every year, a group of us volunteered to participate in Hands on New York Cares Day last weekend. In the spring time, we mostly end up cleaning parks. In the autumn, it's usually painting schools. So this April we were asigned to a little waterfront park in Queens, where we were directed to remove unwanted debris from the coastal water-edge.

We were each given a pair of pickers, and had to poke and prod between the large rocks to pull out pieces of plastic and litter. Doing this every year is always a great lesson for me on the horrors of our plastic generation. But this time, we were otherwise preoccupied with other horrors. What with the recent news reports about the Long Island serial killer, everyone was slightly nervous about reaching their pickers between the rocks, only to discover the remains of a human body. But of course, this didn't transpire in the end (luckily). Instead, the events took a far more pleasant course, with our team wrapping up work early on account of the rain, and heading over instead to the nearby pub.

A few drinks into the afternoon, Lahsiv suddenly announced, "so guys, what should we do about my birthday next week?". We all looked at him in disbelief. How could none of us have known it was his birthday coming up?
"There's no way it's your birthday, man," someone said.
"Isnt your birthday in September?" I asked.
"Are you trying to just get free presents out of us?" someone else demanded.
"Guys!! It's my birthday next week!" Lahsiv launghed at our ridicule.
Not the most supportive of friends, I suppose you could say.

Finally, we checked it on facebook (the wikipedia of personal life), and realised that he had indeed been telling the truth. And so Delta and I decided to throw an impromptu party at our home yesterday, in honour of the ever mistrusted Lahsiv. I even decided to bake a cake (using case mix), but miscalculated the proportion of batter to pan, and we ended up with two cakes instead.

But a party's a party, whatever it's origin, and however many the cakes.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

A sedentary month

The last few weeks of our lives have been somewhat circulating around Delta's knee. Of course Delta himself, of the busted knee, hasn't been circulating around anything. He's been pretty much restricted to the five steps between the couch and the bathroom.

Although Delta's own frustration at his situation is starkly apparent, Queen Jaffa and I for our part have both adjusted our lives to this new situation with remarkable ease. Having lost my close biking/hiking compatriot, I relishingly embraced the more sedentary life snuggled with Delta on the couch. We doubled our netflix queue, bought a bunch of microwave popcord, and prepped for a month of catching up on all the movies we'd ever talked about. Queen Jaffa, for her part, warmly embraced having a napping buddy to share the couch with all day.

But if all goes well, Family McDelta's life of sloth will shortly be coming to a close. Delta finally had his surgery last week, and his knee has been steadily (if more slowly than he'd like) improving each day. The day is fast approaching when we will have run out of excuses. When once more, we'll pick up our backpacks and head out into the woods.

But until that day is upon us, until we are compelled by a driving force outside of our control, you'll find us quite warm and comfortable with our posteriors parked comfortably on the couch.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

A long journey hoome

With Delta's gimpy knee, it was a very long journey back home from India. It was torturous to watch him hobble along slowly, navigating the airport crowds through his pain. I grimaced in sympathy. Not knowing exactly what was wrong, both of us were nervous about where this would lead. Just a bit of recoup? A more serious surgery? I kept a panicky eye on each tentative step.

And then I said (apparently) the most offensive thing any wife could say to their husband. "Delta, do you think you should get a wheelchair? It might be - "
His look cut me off.

From the fact that he gave me the silent treatment for the next few hours of our journey, I gathered that I had threatened his manhood. The infraction was so grave that I might as well have driven the car of our relationship off a cliff.

Speaking of threatened manhood, we, erm, noticed that the security guards in Amsterdam's Schipol airport wear European shoulder bags. Far be it from me to criticise cultural peccadilloes, and gawd knows I have some of my own, but honestly - aren't security guards supposed to look at least somewhat tough-ish? I hate to judge on appearance (and yet I will), but when the security guards sashay around the airport with european shoulder bags, it doesn't quite inspire the confidence it's perhaps meant to.

But I shouldn't criticise them too much. They did serve the purpose of uplifting Delta's mood, what with his sense of masculinity being instantly restored.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Compatriots

After eighteen hours of arduous travel, our flight finally landed in Bombay, exactly on time. It took us about seven minutes to clear immigration and pick up the bottles from duty free that my father had given us explicit instructions to buy. And suddenly we were released out into warm, moist air of the city beyond, to a warmly welcoming set of parent.

For the first couple of days, Delta and I coccooned ourselves on the verandah, enjoying the peaceful oasis while the city bustled, teemed, banged and clanged all around us below. Then on our second afternoon, we decided to shake the inertia and go to the gym for an invigorating workout.

But barely fifteen minutes into the workout, Delta jumped off the speeding treadmill with a yowl. His knee had, all of a sudden, buckled under him. He hopped around the gym in pain while I stared on frozen in horror, not quite sure what to do. His knee had been a bit vulnerable ever since a bad accidental sprain a couple years ago. But nothing like this. He gingerely tried taking a couple steps, but his knee gave way again. And again. We looked at each other in fear, and he grimaced against the pain. There was nothing to be done but to hobble cautiously, tenderly back to the apartment, where he sank onto the bed and popped a couple Alleves gratefully into his mouth.

Since then, we've been back to passing away gentle hours on the verandah, Delta confined to hobbling about with his knee securely bound in a support.

Then this morning, a pigeon landed on the verandah next to our table, as we finished the last dregs of our coffee. It hopped about tentatively, and at first we didn't notice anything unusual, until all of a sudden, I pointed out, "Delta look! It's wounded, the poor thing! There's something wrong with it's leg!". And so it was. The poor bird was nursing an injured leg, and hobbled about slowly by itself in a corner, shunned by the other, fitter pigeons around.

Delta, in his own state of crippled vulnerability, immediately felt a bond for the pigeon. He started throwing small nuts and dried fruit towards it, that it might get some food. They cautiously eyed each other, man and bird, sizing up each others ailments.

In this wild, aggressive city where everyone and everything's fighting for survival, bound by circumstance, this pair of unlikely compatriots.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

A note to my Unc

My uncle left me a voicemail the other day, just before Delta and I jumped on our flight to India. In typical uncle fashion, there was no preamble, no wasted time on senseless greetings or terms of endearment. Straight to the point, just like I like it.

"Hey Ficali," it said, "I noticed you haven't been blogging much. If you're out of topics, I think you should write about me. Just sayin'." Click.

And so, Unc, I'll call your blog post exhortation, and raise you a family reunion invite.

We, erm, noticed that we haven't yet heard when this year's family reunion is taking place. Milwaukee? August? I thought as much. Just that Delta and I were a bit surprised that we haven't received the official word yet, that's all.

You know. Just sayin'. :)

Sunday, March 20, 2011

HR bods live life on the edge too, dammit

Last weekend, being the responsible denizens that we are, Delta and I regrouped to do our taxes. As turbotax walked us through step after step of our financial confessions, the conversation quickly degenerated, as it does each year at this time, into an overall lamentation of the state of our financial affairs.

We were glancing over all our numbers, when one particularly leapt out at me.
"Hang on a sec!" I exclaimed, grabbing Delta's arm. "$200 a month for life insurance?!! Two hundred??!"
"You're right, that does seem a little high," Delta agreed, puzzled.

Momentarily distracted from our taxes, we started meandering down the tunnel of life insurance instead. And here's what we found:
The $200 we pay each month is broken down into:
- Delta, $196
- Ficali, $4

I get why Delta's is so high. Being a pilot and flying internationally and frequently flying to Africa and ... I totally get it. He's high risk. And we're happy to pay in acknowledgement of this.

But really, $4 for me? Just $4? Was that kind of slap in the face really necessary?

"Well, erm, I don't think HR is considered to be, ah, a very high risk profession..." Delta ventured tentatively, trying to tread the dangerous line between life's practicalities and a happy wife.
But I was non-plussed.
So what if I spend my life plugged into my laptop and my greatest threat is the risk of carpel tunnel? I live life on the edge too, dammit.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to pay any more (thank you). I just a little acknowledgement that HR bods are like the Jason Bourne's of corporate mediocrity. Is that too much to ask for?

Friday, March 04, 2011

A quick jaunt across the pond (and then some)

Last weekend, Delta and I went to Jordan. For several years now, we've been talking about going to Petra. And then all of a sudden last month, we decided it was finally time. Delta bid it as a trip, and I tagged along as his partner in crime.

Jordan itself was wonderful. The country is modern and extremely clean, the infrastructure is impressive, the people are incredibly warm and welcoming, and above all, the food is just wonderful.

But one of the most enthralling parts, by far, was actually being right there in the Middle East during Ghaddafi's first speech. Jordan itself feels stable. Delta and I never felt personally unsafe. Rather, it was as though the country was spellbound by a trill of tension, closely following all their neighbours on the telly. A mood of electric exhilaration was pervasive. When Ghaddafi came on to give his first rambling speeches, it was aired in arabic. But one of the Jordanians standing nearby instantly took us under his wing, translating the highlights for us. The nation was stupefied. Riveted. Frozen. All around us, history was in the making. And there we were, li'l ol' Delta and me, right in the middle of it all, shoving olives in our dumbfounded mouths like popcorn at the movies.

And then, of course, there was the spectacular Petra. Every bit as magical as it's reputation, and even much much more so. We were lucky: it wasn't yet high season, and we ended up having large stretches of the trail pretty much to ourselves.







Thursday, March 03, 2011

A whole new look

Last week, we gave our living room a facelift. And seeing as our apartment really only has two rooms, I guess I could say we gave half our apartment a facelift. We bought ourselves some new furniture - an armchair, a sleeper couch and a bookcase, to be precise.

As soon as the couch and armchair were in place, we noticed that skulking cat Queen Jaffa eyeing them from  her corner of the room, immediately sizing them up as good scratching posts. So Delta and I had to run out in panic and buy little plastic guards for the arms of the couch.

And let me tell you, nothing downshifts a facelift as much as plastic covers on the couch arms.

And then I noticed another new feature I hadn't seen before. How had I missed this in the showroom? Both the couch and the armchair are too big for me. Yes,  I kid you not. If I sit upright leaning against the back, my thighs are too short, and my knee joints don't quite reach the edge of the seat, so I have to sit with my legs sticking straight out in front. It's not the furniture's fault. The furniture is just made for  the normal human body. How could they have known I map to the height of the australopithecus afarensis?

So there you have it. A couch with plastic covered arms, and a girl with her legs sticking straight out. Like I said. We gave our room a facelift.

Laugh though you might - visitors, rest easy. Our guests now have a sleeper to rest their weary heads on. No more airmattress that keeps infinitesimally losing air throughout the night. No more having to patch the air mattress with bike tire seals.

Like I said. We gave our room a facelift.

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

A moment of vanity

I can't even believe it myself, let alone actually broadcast it. Yesterday, I went for a laser hair removal appointment for my legs. That's right. I'm going to get all those stubborn hair suckers lasered off my legs if it's the last thing I do.

Laser hair removal feels like some kind of fantasmagorical version of Gulliver's Travels. You're lying very still blind-folded on a table, as little lasers are shot into your legs like an army of lilliput arrows.
"Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" I exclaimed for the first few minutes. Until I tired of the monotony of my own protests, and settled instead for a kind of whimpering presence. For one and a half hours, little lilliput arrows up and down my legs.

So why would you go through this, you ask?

When I was yet a babe in womb, I had specifically asked Gawd to be born slim, tall, long-legged and modelesque. It didn't happen. Let's face it, instead he made me into the little sausage-dog version of the human race.

Gawd, don't think I don't know I've been short-changed in the legs department.

So I'm going to take matters into my own control, and obliterate them hairs. What's the world come to when you can no longer depend on old white bearded men with tridents in their hands to solve all your problems for you.

That's right, World. Today, I've taken matters into my own hands. Today, I have the smoothest, hairlessest legs in town.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

A rather flurried catch up

It’s been appallingly, disappointingly, inconsiderately snowy here in NYC. Which means, for the most part, that Delta and I have been hunkering down indoors, spending significant stretches of time prostrate on the couch.

Not the ideal way to spend a winter. I wouldn’t quite say I’m proud of watching a ten hour marathon session of Law and Order. Even Queen Jaffa started casting us worried glances from time to time, no doubt wondering if her parents had spontaneously metamorphosed into slugs.

On the other hand, our sloth has allowed us to do a flurried catch up of all the Oscars nominations for this year. After a year replete with films devoid of any merit, Hollywood pulled a typical stunt and released all the quality stuff en masse right at the very end.

Which would not be a problem in itself, except for peeps like Delta and me who get disproportionately competitive about predicting the Oscars results. If you’re going to do that, you need to watch the films. Ergo, the flurried catch-up.

Five years ago, Delta swiped six plastic, golden Oscars award figurines from Nooj’s apartment. A long story, perhaps for another day, but needless to say it left us with six gold figurines, and Nooj without. Every year since then, we’ve been holding an Oscar’s party and giving away one of the figurines to the winner who predicted the best. Because – even if one can’t act oneself – there’s nothing to stop you from judging others, of course. To date, rather infuriatingly, Bobbis has won the award almost every year. Now there’s only one figurine left, and this year, I’m determined to win.

Ergo, the flurried catch up.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

A peopleish weekend

This past weekend will go down in the books as a rather social one.  A couple birthdays and a reunion of friends is apparently what it takes really to beckon the McDeltas out of social hibernation. Both birthday girls  had chosen restaurants in the East village, which peaked my excitement, not least because we could use the Select Bus. Everything about the Select Bus is enthralling to me, but nothing more so than the flashing blue lights. Never said I wasn't infantile like that.

Friday night it was Cafe Mogador, and for Saturday, Ilajna chose Boca Chica. I mention them only because they were both great, and I want to actively recommend them to anyone who cares to listen.

Delta and I typically suffer from a case of extreme homebodiliness that keeps us physically tethered to our neighbourhood. Which is a shame, because really with the advent of the Second Avenue Subway, our neighbourhood rather leaves something to be desired. It typically takes a special occasion of sorts to lure us out, and this weekend, the occasions did not disappoint. The food had a unique flourish unto it's own chef. The wine came in hefty prohibition-era glasses whose quantity boggle eye. The atmosphere had flair and exuberance.

And of course, the company. Always, the company.


Tuesday, January 04, 2011

A cat to be proud of

Lately, Queen Jaffa had taken to licking the one spot in her body where she really shouldn't. She had mastered the yoga move inolved. In truly ungainly fashion, she would lay on her back and splay her legs in the air, and then do a sudden sit-up and lean forward to bring her head between her back legs, at which point she would start licking her privates assiduously.

Delta and I were, at first, so horrified by the appalling lack of propriety that we forgot to consider her potential ailment. Were we really to be saddled with a bottom-licking kitty?

So yesterday, we took QJ for a dreaded visit to the vet, Dr B.

Now, I always think of QJ as a rather docile kitty, seeing as she spends about 18 hours of the day sleeping, and the remaining 6 either eating or cuddled up in our laps. Not an ounce of hostility in that cat.

Except when we go see Dr B. For whatever reason, the Doc, who I personally find to be rather charming myself, unleashes the wrath of gawd in QJ. She unfurls all her latent feral felineness, puffs out her lungs, and releases a crescendoing opera of hiss and yowl.   

Delta and I just stood back from the cacophany, alternately apologizing to Dr B and trying to pacify an obstreperous QJ.  It was all rather disconcerting, really. The entire time we were there, QJ yowled in the horrific tones of fighting alleycats, although Dr B was barely even touching  her at all. Drama queen.

She created such a racket in fact, that when we opened the door of the exam room to leave, we found we had company: All the other patients in the clinic (a huge great dane, a tiny chihuahua, and five cats), flustered by QJ's yowls, had gathered together in collective alarm behind the closed door of the room, to investigate what all the yelling was about.

There was a moment of awkward pause while we all stared at each other in embarrassment - two comical dogs, five cats, Dr B, QJ, Delta and me. Suddenly realizing that the examination was over, and that she had an audience, QJ brushed us off with a disdainful shake, and jumped into my arms soshe could be carried out with her head held high.

Nothing, if not a cat to be proud of.