The Cat Crept In The Crypt – Crapped And Crept Out Again!

‘The cat crept in the crypt, crapped and crept out again,’ is something that a friend and I used to say back in the dark ages – when I was married. My husband was a vet and therefore we lived in a house provided by the practice. It was a rambling old thing, no heating to talk of, damp mites living in the cupboards (but that’s another story) and a mish-mash of old furniture. Did any of that matter? Not really. Except the damp mites of course –  but as I said that’s another story

I was a vet’s wife. I loved animals. I loved him – at the time. And life was hunky dory, I guess.

In this ‘rambling old thing,’ there was a pantry. It lead off the hallway and you had to take a step down to a quarry-tiled floor. It had a cold slab with wooden shelves above it. Having three cats and an English Setter – that wasn’t beyond golloping down cat faeces given less than half a chance, it seemed like a good idea, and the obvious answer, to put the litter trays in there. I will state at this point that NO food was kept in there!

It worked quite well and provided hours of silly tittering. My friend and I would be having coffee or whatever and the sound of the cat-flap swinging, as one of the cats entered to do their stuff or excited having done their stuff, echoed around the house. You see, it was a very large cat flap and swung manically against a metal frame. At this sound my friend and I would look at each other and roar, ‘the cat’s crept in the crypt – crapped and crept out again!’

Little things please little minds.

This isn’t something that I think about on a regular basis – just very occasionally – when something reminds me. And something reminded me on Sunday morning.

Toddling up the garden, on the way to the greenhouse and the uncovering of the tender plants and the turning off of the propagators, I was perplexed to see the far door of the second greenhouse slightly open – about eight inches. Perplexed because I knew for a fact that I’d secured it the previous day. On closer examination I noticed a heap of compost scratched out of the border and deposited on the central concrete pathway. THEN I noticed that the fifth baby tomato plant, only planted the previous day, had disappeared. Yes, I’d done my usually impatient thing of planting them into the ground as soon as they had true leaves but they were not THAT small that they should have disappeared.

I can’t believe that Chea pushed her way in there and scratched it out because she won’t even push through a door that’s off the catch. Oh, no. We have to jump up and down three million times a day to let her out . . . in . . . out . . . in. You get the picture?

So, after applying a ‘Sherlock Holmes’ type of logic I can only assume that a neighbour’s cat pushed its way in, ‘crept in the greenhouse, crapped and crept out again?’ But just why the little bugger had to have it away with my baby tomato plant will have to remain a mystery!20170403_095828

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Take care all – and batten down those baby plants!

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So! How Are You Old Bean?

Hi All

As promised I am back to normal. The trouble is I kind of wish I wasn’t because normal in my world is just bouncing from one dilemma to the next.

Yesterday afternoon I had the chucks out and usually I trot off through the gate into the veggie part of the garden and do a bit of pruning and such like while they do their thing. Yesterday I decided to wander aimlessly smelling the roses, literally, and eating a few bits and pieces. There were a few ripe blueberries and the odd pink gooseberry that had escaped the picking for the jam and I tested one or two of the apples. So all in all a nice little munch.

Then I spotted the huge runner beans swaying merrily in the slight afternoon breeze and decided that I’d pick a few and eat them raw. They were jolly tasty, sweet and juicy. So I ate a few more and then chose two to give to the chucks after I’d rounded them up and put them away later. I continued mindlessly around the garden, pulled up a few caterpillar ravaged cabbages and then went back and had another munch on the runner beans. I felt terrific. Quite full and precious little calories!

After I’d shut the chucks in with their beans I meandered back to the house … and suddenly a thought squeezed through the old grey matter. And it was this, ‘aren’t the actual beans inside the casing of runner beans poisonous?

I woke up the laptop and Googled, ‘can you eat raw runner beans?’

Google was emphatic. ‘No. You can’t. They contain a toxin that is poisonous in high quantities and can cause vomiting and diarrhoea.’  Well that couldn’t be true …could it? I asked the question on my Facebook page and my friends virtually said, ‘don’t be a plank of course you can eat them raw.’ I’d eaten them raw before, in small amounts but this time I had eaten a lot.

My first reaction probably should have been to make myself sick but it wasn’t. My first reaction was, ‘shit! I need to get those beans out of the chuck’s cage.’ I dashed up the garden and peered into the outside run. Not a bean in sight!

I then stomped up to the loo and put my fingers down my throat – many – many times. Nothing! My digestive system only tends to work one way and once food drops into my stomach there is no getting it back. I then appeared to break out into a sweat. I convinced myself that this was the first symptom of food poisoning and rushed to wash my face. It was then that I noticed I’d burst the tiny blood vessels beneath my eyes with all that pointless retching. So …shit again!

At this point my brother turned up, didn’t appear to notice my speckled eyes, and we fell into chatting and I forgot all about it.

This morning I popped out for a bit of retail therapy. I figured I deserved it and so I drove the eight miles to the nearest shopping thingy. Half way there and the stomach cramps began. Passing drivers probably thought that I was singing. I wasn’t.

Unfortunately I had to stop at more loos than shops. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to buy anything except to dash into Smiths to pick up a copy of Classic Land Rover magazine for Richard. See? I’m almost on my knees and I still manage to fetch his daft magazine! I don’t know why I bother. I’m convinced that he only looks at the pictures.

Now I sit here and the gripey pains are playing a lovely tune in my lower bowel. I have come to the conclusion that ‘growing your own’ might not be all it’s cracked up to be! At least, eating your own certainly isn’t. And now I also know why they are called runner beans!

I would love to stay longer and write more but …common sense advises me not to.MB900440672

Take care my lovelies x