Why your cat knows more than you do

Shouldn't underestimate the little dudes, seriously. Forensic evidence suggests that on Thursday evening there was a serious cider-liver interface going on involving this correspondent and friends in the locality; with the usual climax of kebab precurement; let's be honest, nobody buys those damnable things sober, it's just a Turkish Drinking Tax. Said kebab was placed in one of my metal curry bowls (civilised household you see, or one that does inpersonations) and placed on the lounge floor, as that's where I was at the time. And promptly ignored by all human life forms, as is the correct response to being in proximity to such an item, although intoxicated absent mindedness might have more to do with it. Eight'ish hours later, and with full exposure to the patrolling tomcat of the house, I can report it was absolutely untouched and totally ignored by feline hand.... erm, paw, or tooth, proving conclusively that they know a thing or two, and don't drink cider.

Oh no!! The health nazi's have got me in their grip! Was summoned to the hozzy yesterday for a session with the cardiac recovery nurse, which is an idea I've never heard of before and is indeed new. A very long, and it has to be said not unpleasant natter where she discovered that there is in fact nothing whatsoever in my diet that she can now complain about, and that most of my stats are now exactly where I need them to be, that I've lost two whole points of cholesterol since this business started and I'm now a couple of fractions from their ideal; and that they're signing me up for free workouts starting next week, which is great because it answers a question that's been bugging me since the op "when can I next exercise you bastards, can I get my bloody bike out, will somebody please give me some information?". A little flat to realise just how picture perfect my food intake has become, with the exception of not eating any oily fish (because it's yukky). Maybe a steak dinner at Damon's is in order. Thank god for the booze or I'd be lost to HN'ism for ever.

And in antidote to that, strolled up to Biro'land last night for an introduction to her legendary boozer; no, not that she IS a legendary boozer (hello Jules xx), but the rather fine pub around the corner. A listed building, which means that the gas lights, uneven slate floor and real coal fires in every room which the Health and Safety executive'd flip out at under any other circumstances can stay. Wooo! It actually gets lighter when you leave the pub and walk back into the night. And a nice pint of lovely Sam Smiths bitter for a mere £1.33, what else can you ask for? Works for me. The White Horse, Beverley, known locally as "Nellies". This is your free blogosphere plug of the day. Oh, and I don't think that Millie the cat has yet quite forgiven me for my laughing at the unfortunate turd-dragging incident of some months ago, but she is at least talking to me again, which is something.