The Magic of Paris
I bought some new under-eye moisturiser the other day. I am fickle with my brands, and the one I bought the other day was one I have never used before. It is called Miracle Skin Cream Eyes: Anti-Ageing Skin Transforming Care because the people at Garnier do not know when to stop adding words. (It's not the anti-ageing properties I am interested in, I feel I should say. I use the stuff because the skin under my eyes is dry and irritated, even when I apply regular moisturiser to it. Maybe wearing glasses has some sort of drying effect?)
Anyway, I opened the tube last night and applied some. My skin didn't feel noticeably moisturised. This morning after my shower I used it again. I put a dab of white cream on the tip of my right ring finger, touched my left ring finger to it, then carefully applied the stuff round both eyes. Then, because I was obviously not wearing my glasses yet, I leant in close to the mirror to check that I had rubbed it all in. And gasped, because it turns out that Miracle Skin Cream Eyes: Anti-Ageing Skin Transforming Care isn't a moisturiser at all. It's a concealer, and I had just drawn two slightly tan circles around my eyes. I looked like a caramel panda.
You would think that would be enough excitement for one day, but.... there is a creature in my house. A domestic shorthair tabby sort of creature, going by the name of Alistair. I would take his photo for you, but I don't actually know where he is. I last saw him hiding under the spare bed, but he's not there now. I assume he'll come out eventually.
So obviously, I have been to the cat shop today. Also known as the local RSPCA shelter. I felt that was the best way to obtain a cat, it being unlikely that another one would turn up on the doorstep. The woman working there looked familiar, but I am hopeless at asking things like that. It was a relief when she said, 'We went to school together, didn't we?' and I could say, 'Yes, you're Janita,' and she said, 'Yes, and you're Alicia,' and we got that out of the way. I mentioned that my cat had died a month ago, and the cat before him actually came from this very shelter when we were in Year 8 and lived to be 21, which impressed Janita no end.
We went to the cat enclosure and I wished I could take them all. A tiny black kitten with yellow eyes climbed the door of its cage so I could poke its round little belly through the wire. It mewed and showed me its pin-spiky teeth. I would have taken it straight away, but I don't really have the time to devote to a kitten. You have to be sensible about these things. In the next cage there was a basket of fluffy white kittens, fortunately asleep so they couldn't mew their squeaky siren song at me. (Even if they did, I would resist them. It would have been the black one for me, were I in the market for a kitten.)
I concentrated on the adult cats and narrowed it down to two very quickly, those being the two who came up to the door of their cages for a pat. One was called Dunstin, and he was the most beautiful soft grey tabby. The other was Alistair, who is a classic tabby with white socks. Janita let them both out and they were both friendly. Dunstin quickly bored of me, though, and went to look at the rabbit enclosure, which he could see on the other side of the window, while Alistair mooched around my legs and consented to sit on my knee for a minute or so. Choice made, so I brought him home.
With one exception, every cat I have ever had came to me as a kitten and so has grown up knowing that living with me is a good life for a cat. (The exception was, of course, Percy, who was fully grown and had a firm opinion about where he wanted to live.) So it is an odd thing to have this new cat, four years old, already registered and chipped to me, who suspects I may be an axe murderer he needs to hide from. But he'll come round.
While I was doing all the paperwork (working around the tail of Frank, the shelter's pet cat, who was sitting on the counter), a woman came in to... do something? I don't know. I wasn't paying that much attention. The shelter worker who was helping her asked if she'd filled in an adoption form yet, and the woman said, 'Yes, I did that last week, but I can't remember if it's in the name of Audrey Farley or Lily Waddington.' Which seems a bit odd.
Anyway, I opened the tube last night and applied some. My skin didn't feel noticeably moisturised. This morning after my shower I used it again. I put a dab of white cream on the tip of my right ring finger, touched my left ring finger to it, then carefully applied the stuff round both eyes. Then, because I was obviously not wearing my glasses yet, I leant in close to the mirror to check that I had rubbed it all in. And gasped, because it turns out that Miracle Skin Cream Eyes: Anti-Ageing Skin Transforming Care isn't a moisturiser at all. It's a concealer, and I had just drawn two slightly tan circles around my eyes. I looked like a caramel panda.
You would think that would be enough excitement for one day, but.... there is a creature in my house. A domestic shorthair tabby sort of creature, going by the name of Alistair. I would take his photo for you, but I don't actually know where he is. I last saw him hiding under the spare bed, but he's not there now. I assume he'll come out eventually.
So obviously, I have been to the cat shop today. Also known as the local RSPCA shelter. I felt that was the best way to obtain a cat, it being unlikely that another one would turn up on the doorstep. The woman working there looked familiar, but I am hopeless at asking things like that. It was a relief when she said, 'We went to school together, didn't we?' and I could say, 'Yes, you're Janita,' and she said, 'Yes, and you're Alicia,' and we got that out of the way. I mentioned that my cat had died a month ago, and the cat before him actually came from this very shelter when we were in Year 8 and lived to be 21, which impressed Janita no end.
We went to the cat enclosure and I wished I could take them all. A tiny black kitten with yellow eyes climbed the door of its cage so I could poke its round little belly through the wire. It mewed and showed me its pin-spiky teeth. I would have taken it straight away, but I don't really have the time to devote to a kitten. You have to be sensible about these things. In the next cage there was a basket of fluffy white kittens, fortunately asleep so they couldn't mew their squeaky siren song at me. (Even if they did, I would resist them. It would have been the black one for me, were I in the market for a kitten.)
I concentrated on the adult cats and narrowed it down to two very quickly, those being the two who came up to the door of their cages for a pat. One was called Dunstin, and he was the most beautiful soft grey tabby. The other was Alistair, who is a classic tabby with white socks. Janita let them both out and they were both friendly. Dunstin quickly bored of me, though, and went to look at the rabbit enclosure, which he could see on the other side of the window, while Alistair mooched around my legs and consented to sit on my knee for a minute or so. Choice made, so I brought him home.
With one exception, every cat I have ever had came to me as a kitten and so has grown up knowing that living with me is a good life for a cat. (The exception was, of course, Percy, who was fully grown and had a firm opinion about where he wanted to live.) So it is an odd thing to have this new cat, four years old, already registered and chipped to me, who suspects I may be an axe murderer he needs to hide from. But he'll come round.
While I was doing all the paperwork (working around the tail of Frank, the shelter's pet cat, who was sitting on the counter), a woman came in to... do something? I don't know. I wasn't paying that much attention. The shelter worker who was helping her asked if she'd filled in an adoption form yet, and the woman said, 'Yes, I did that last week, but I can't remember if it's in the name of Audrey Farley or Lily Waddington.' Which seems a bit odd.