Rituals & Memories

My Dear Princess and Dear Fellows,

Do you have rituals? I have many.

Oh, but let me be clear. I am not talking about kinky 1970s Hammer horror movie rituals in which men with pointy beards rub blood that is ketchup really on Sally Geeson's boobs although chance would be a fine thing*.

No, I mean do you have those moments when you just autopilot around pondering politics or philosophy or women's knickers and end up using minty body wash as shampoo by mistake or leaving your deodorant in the fridge?

I had such a moment this morning when of my morning rituals short-circuited and I squirted nasal spray in my ear.

And my conscious brain tried to warn me. I stood there with the nozzle in my ear but my left hand reached up to block the other nostril and I CONSCIOUSLY THOUGHT "Why are you doing that you big fool?" 

And then. SQUIRT. SQUISH. 

Oh.

I am sure I am not the only one who does this sort of thing, although I may be the only person not suffering from ear-hayfever today. For example, there was the time my dad smacked my mum on the nose because they switched sides in bed and subconscious dad was convinced that if only he could smack her in the face hard enough, the alarm clock noise would stop.

Apparently she kept telling him, "Look. Stop. Listen. I'm NOT the alarm clock!" but it took him ages. His arm was just used to whacking the alarm at that time in the morning and if my mum got in the way, that was HER fault.

As for Punky and Jasper, they definitely live by rituals. Every morning Punky has to roll around on top of my chest of drawers, purring.

Neither of us knows why. But it is the law.

Another bizarre cat ritual was my cat Lucky. She was an 18 year old OAP pussycat and had decided I belonged to her. She had a rasping Bette Davis meow - "mrraaaah". We imagined she had smoked too much as a kitten. She took it into her head that I should be in bed by 11pm every evening and would stalk off to the bedroom, with or without me.

"Mrrraaahh!" She would shout and not let up until I was in bed. Then she would jump onto my chest, purr at me for ten minutes and then - having put me to bed - go back to the living room to watch telly with Er Indoors.

Bloody rude! 

I still have no idea why she felt the need to do this, but maybe it was the onset of kitty dementia. I'm not kidding, she really developed it about a year afterward. 

In pussycats, dementia shows up by the cat waking up in the middle of the night, unsure of where it is and crying out in panic. Lucky made terrifying sounds; she literally screamed like she was being hurt. It was horrible.

So she and I developed a new ritual. Every night at 11pm, I would unfold the sofa-couch, and go to bed in the living room with her. She would watch in approval as I unfolded my duvet and brought through my pillow. This went on for about a year. Every night she slept in the crook of my arm, and her night terrors subsided.

It was only a year, because after a while her legs gave way and we had to say goodbye to her. I still sleep with my arm out though, as if I'm reaching out for Lucky the Cat. I can't sleep any other way now, and sometimes Jasper takes me up on it.

I'm not sure where all these thoughts are leading me. Perhaps it's the realisation that behaviour becomes memories and memories become rituals until the things you do for a reason just become the things you do.

And the memories of why drain to the sea.

Woah! Did you SEE how I stuck the landing on today's blip? Did you?! Did you see how I managed to tie the picture of the drain-cover to my theme? THAT'S EFFING WRITING IRVINE WELSH! Get tae EFF, Martin Amis!

But ahem, yes. I'm deep, you know.

S.

* And it wouldn't even have to be ketchup! I'm not proud. It could be fruity sauce or even salad cream. I think what I am trying to say here is Sally, if you happen to be reading this and are still into condiments, give me a call.