Wobbly kittens

It has become clear over the past week that Dorian (the grey kitten) and Wiktor (his grey-and-white twin) both have wobbly kitten syndrome. Of the two, Dorian is extremely unsteady on his feet and unable to walk more than three paces before falling over. Wiktor is somewhat more stable, nevertheless he cannot scamper freely like his siblings; his gait is unsure, he walks slowly, but does not constantly fall over as Dorian does.

I began noticing slight tremors in these two a few weeks ago. Weight-wise, they are above the average for this litter, they were both feeding well and neither was being ignored by their mother. But as soon as  the kittens left their birthing box having learned to stand upright, it was clear that all's not well with Dorian and Wiktor.

Below. Dorian (left) and Wiktor (right) flanking their one brother, Mars. Sisters Memphis and Kwinta are in their basket in my bedroom. At rest, all seems normal. As soon as they move, the disability becomes obvious to see.

I typed the symptoms into ChatGPT, which told me that this is very likely to be 'wobbly kitten syndrome', or cerebellar hypoplasia. "It typically becomes obvious when kittens start walking, with uncoordinated gait, swaying and falling over. It is neither painful [though Dorian falls over a lot], nor contagious, nor progressive; many cats adapt well", says ChatGPT.

Cross-checking with Wikipedia, I discover this: "Cerebellar hypoplasia in cats. Symptoms include swaying, head tremors, uncoordinated walking, and hypermetria [overshooting of the intended leg position]. There is no treatment. There are very minor differences to a cat's life caused by cerebellar hypoplasia. Usually, they are more prone to falls and being attacked. A simple solution is keeping them indoors. The condition is not infectious in any way. Some accommodations that might be needed are easier access to the litter box or higher food and water bowls."

I have to watch how I move around the house, ever-careful not to step on a kitten that can't get out of the way. They are clumsy, so things need moving. First damage has been done – my French press coffee maker was nudged off a low shelf at the end of the kitchen unit, shattering the glass.

Early morning, Tuesday 30 June. I wake up with the dawn. Outside on the kitchen window, there's a line of cats awaits their breakfast, like social-security claimants waiting for the DHSS doors to open. A tin of cat food is cracked, the front door is pushed ajar, and in pour Scrapper, Czester, Pacyfik, Arcturus and Hipek like a feline tsunami (no sign of Wenusia this morning). The kitchen floor is a mêlée of adult cats and tiny kittens; Pacyfik is growling and hissing at them (and at Hipek).  The rest are cool. The adults know what's expected of them; they eat quickly, and having hoovered up sufficient wet- and dry cat food, they leap up onto the parapet and one by one are allowed back out of the kitchen window, leaving Céleste and the little ones. 

I settle down at my laptop to read overnight emails, and hear a sound like a distant industrial pump – I stand up to check if the neighbours are up to something – but no; this the sound of five kittens feeding at their mother's breasts. Céleste is lying by the kitchen sink, not far from my feet. Neither Dorian nor Wiktor have any difficulty in latching onto a nipple and feed normally. Mum is feeding them all without any prejudice or preference. Given that much of their time up to now has been spent sleeping and feeding, their condition was easy to overlook. But once out on the tiled floors, they slip up continually. Wiktor looks like he's had one drink too many; poor little Dorian appears worse.

Most importantly, what next? I shall see how things unfold. Firstly, most importantly, this is not a condition that will ease as the kitten turns into an adult cat. ChatGPT again: "cats are generally affected for life but learn to cope. It usually does not resolve, but the kitten may compensate." How adept the brains of Dorian and Wiktor will be to create work-arounds that enable them to function normally remains to be seen.

Secondly: how will the group dynamics evolve? At present, all is good. The three able-bodied kittens, Mars, Memphis and Quinta, play with Wiktor and Dorian in equal measure, and there is plenty of allogrooming [social grooming – mutual cleaning of fur between members of the same group, this reciprocal behaviour being a crucial social mechanism used to relieve stress, reinforce family links, build companionship, and establish dominance hierarchies – Wikipedia]. But how long will this continue? With last year's brood, all five kittens would set out on patrol, setting out and returning together as a group. Dorian (certainly) and Wiktor (probably) should not be allowed out. How long can that continue in a rural setting?

This time last year:
Białowieża: more than bison

This time two years ago:
TriCity miscellany

This time three years ago:
Footpath between Widok and Chynów station is opened

This time four years ago:
Summertime, and the living is lazy

This time five years ago:
Thoughts occasioned by the picking of fruit

This time seven years ago:
First half of 2019 - health in numbers

This time eight years ago:
Key Performance Indicators - health - first half 2018

This time nine years ago:
Three and half years of health and fitness data

This time ten years ago:
First half of 2016 health & fitness in numbers

This time 11 years ago:
Venus, Jupiter – auspices

This time 121 years ago:
Down the line from York

This time 13 years ago:
Cider – at last available in Poland

This time 14 years ago:
Despondency on Puławska

This time 15 years ago:
Stalking the stork

This time 17 years ago:
Late-June lightning

Coping with the heat

Yes, it's been this hot before, but not in June. When the temperature outside is 38°C (100°F), it makes no sense to spend time beyond the walls of one's house. Indoors it's 33°C, but still this is not weather for exercising or gardening. Hottest temperatures in Poland on record.

At night, the temperature does not fall below 22°C in the house; I sleep with windows open under an empty duvet cover. On nights like this, Fleetwood Mac's Green Manalishi comes to mind... "Now, when the day goes to sleep/And the full moon looks/And the night is so black that the darkness cooks." Uneasy hot night music that I associate with August. Heavens know what August will be like this year.

Having a garden full of trees and long grass keeps the temperature outside around 2°C cooler than the ambient air. My phones show that the local temperature for Jakubowizna at three pm to be 37°C, my outdoor thermometer shows 34.6°C north-facing side of the house and 34.7°C on the east-facing side.

Meanwhile, my solar panels are working flat out, generating power and exporting it to the grid.

My heatwave work-round involves an early night, an early start (04:30 this morning), a short, hour-long walk in the somewhat fresher morning air, back home before 8am, get some work done, then a classic Spanish-style siesta. As the evening air cools down, a second walk around sunset is called for. Some exercises (not the full work-out) before retiring as early as possible. Outside in dawn, outside at dusk. Going out in the midday sun to do, say, some gardening, is bonkers. If you are partially or wholly working from home, I recommend the 7:00-11:00 then 14:00-18:00 routine with a three-hour lunch+siesta break. And going to bed before 21:30.

Meanwhile, the fruit is ripening. I know where the best cherry orchards are – unkept and unfenced, and groaning with fruit. Like, branches falling away from the tree trunk because of the weight of cherries. And the blackcurrants that stick out on the footpath side of the fence. Dawn and dusk, best time for picking.

The cats are zonked out. They can survive in the coldest of winter (my of mine had spent at least one night outdoors at -20°C below or colder); this heat is just as hard for them to bear. Céleste is halfway through breastfeeding her litter, her long Norwegian forest-cat fur is getting matted and clumpy. AI recommends grooming her 'little and often'. And keeping the cats hydrated is important too. Céleste is moulting at an amazing rate; her head looks diminutive; like a beautiful model shorn of her locks to a crew cut.

Below: Hipek prefers to eat in a lying-down posture in the heat.

A propos of hydration, zero-alcohol beer (hoppy IPA is my preference) is great; the hoppy bitterness extinguishes thirst nicely. As does a ginger infusion. Peel and slice a goodly amount of ginger and place in a large (660 ml) glass; pour over boiling water, add a slice of lemon or lime (or both), a small amount of honey once it's cooled a bit... and let it stand. The longer the better. The spiciness of the ginger does the trick.

I will be writing next month about the life-changing summer holiday to Poland in the summer of 1976. The weather was nothing like this. Photos from then show us wearing two or three layers of clothing, typically shirt-jumper-jacket. For six consecutive years (1976 to 1981), Poland suffered unusually cold, damp summers, a stark contrast to the intense heatwaves being experienced today. And yes, I do remember the English summer of 1976. I remember it very well. It was hot. But not this hot. I don't remember baking nights where the temperatures refused to fall below 20°C after the sun set.

Climate change is happening. I (at least) am taking steps to cut my own carbon emissions; I've not flown since March 2020, I drive once a week typically, filling the car (1.2-litre engine) with petrol four or five times a year, and I have solar panels and energy storage batteries. But enough of my virtue signalling!

This time last year:
Letters to an imaginary grandson (V)

This time six years ago:
Garden pub for the działka

This time seven years ago:

Down the line to Warka

This time 12 years ago
Down the line from York

This time 13 years ago:
Czester and his sister

This time 15 years ago:
The Cold Weather Guys – a short story

This time 16 years ago:
Bike ride along the banks of the Vistula

This time 17 years ago:
Three hill walks around Dobra

This time 18 years ago:
90th Anniversary of the Polish Navy

This time 19 years ago:
Memory and comfort

Entwined Histories by Piotr Wilczek

For anyone living in the Polish-British space, this book is an absolute must-read. A collection of 38 essays written by Poland's former ambassador to Washington (during the first Trump administration) and to London (taking office just as Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine began), the book is presented as a 'cultural memory'. It avoids the format of a conventional diplomatic memoire; Prof Wilczek reveals no juicy tittle-tattle. "I shall be taking such secrets to the next world," he said at the book's Warsaw launch. Rather, each essay shows how the histories of Britain and Poland have been interwoven by war, exile, culture, tradition and diplomacy in unexpected ways. 

After a spirited attack on lazy media stereotypes of Poles in an article to The Spectator, Prof Wilczek has become a regular guest on the pages of the magazine, currently edited by Michael Gove. A revised version of the chapter, How London became Poland's second capital, made its way from the book to The Spectator earlier this month.

What makes the book so fascinating is the topics chosen for 38 essays. A few are familiar (such as the stories of spy Krystyna Skarbek or General Maczek); most of them, however, uncover new territory even for readers well-versed in British-Polish relations. These include the story of how the Duke of Kent might have become the King of Poland had he not died in a plane crash in 1942, and the story of Poland’s ambassador to the court of Henry VIII, Jan Dantyszek (Johannes Dantiscus), who arrived in London as envoy of Poland's King Sigismund I in 1522, exactly 500 years before Piotr Wilczek took up the role of Poland’s ambassador to the UK. I also found fascinating the story of Socinianism, a nontrinitarian Protestant movement ('the Polish Brethren'), based in Raków, "a modest town which housed a printing press, a famous academy and some of the sharpest minds of the age." Prof Wilczek writes: "For a brief but incandescent period, Raków was Geneva without the dourness – Reformation thinking at its most open and its least vengeful." The Counter-Reformation got to the Socinians in the end, forcing them into exile. "Socianian thought percolated into the bloodstream of English radicalism. Its fingerprints can be seen in the writings of William Penn, the Quaker founder of Pennsylvania." A trip to Raków (40km south-east of Kielce) is thus in order.

Another noteworthy chapter, A Polish Eye on England's Harbours – with Joseph Conrad in Mind, considers through visits to Southampton, Portsmouth, Liverpool and Hull how the Polish-born writer understood the British Isles as home to a sea-faring nation. Prof Wilczek quotes from Conrad's description of the Thames Estuary in Heart of Darkness, which remains one of the most atmospherically evocative passages I have ever read in the English language.

London is a top posting for any diplomat, so about a third of the book is focused on it. I found the essays on the Warburg Institute and the diplomat's guide to navigating London's gentlemen's clubs the most interesting, as well as the descriptions of its bookshops – and its Polish restaurants.

One thing I would have like to have seen in Entwined Histories is some comparisons between the training and ethos of the British and Polish diplomatic corps. Diplomacy is very much a field in which one needs phenomenally fine judgment and superb people-skills – and above all, knowing when to stay silent. Dealing with the assorted ogres, narcissists and ne’er-do-wells that all too often rise to positions of highest office requires a suspension of normal instinct-based behaviour. "Diplomacy is a balancing act between urgency and restraint," writes Prof Wilczek; I feel that it is something you have to be born to do; most of us would be too quick to snap back with an undiplomatic riposte that would carry with it real-world consequences. How the diplomatic mindset is nurtured across different cultures is of great interest to the general reader.

Entwined Histories reads well and smoothly; it shall end up on my library shelf next to Speeches for Leaders by the former British Ambassador to Warsaw, Charles Crawford.

Entwined Histories is available from Chronos Books (www.chronosbooks.com) for £12.99/$17.95.

This time last year:
The [2025-brood] kittens on their 12th day

This time last year:
A new path to Krężel

This time two years ago:
Mutineers march on Moscow

This time six years ago:
Lifelong brand ambassador

This time eight years ago:
How much for locally grown strawberries?

This time nine years ago:
Zamość – the beautiful, must-visit town of Poland's east

This time 15 years ago:
Israeli Boeing 707 visits Warsaw again

This time 16 years ago:
More interesting aircraft overhead...

This time 17 years ago:
Poland is really short on mountains

This time 18 years ago:
The warmth of the sun
[with noctilucent clouds]

This time 19 years ago:
Full rainbow over Jeziorki

The new kittens at one month old

I got back from my evening walk yesterday, opened the front door and walked into the house, to see that for the first time in its life, one of the kittens has left my bedroom and ventured into the kitchen. Following me into the house from the outdoors were Wenusia, Scrapper and Czester; upon seeing a tiny newcomer on the kitchen floor, they approached it, each cat reacting differently. Wenusia hissed; Scrapper growled sub voce; Czester was entirely cool in the presence of the little one.

Now, Céleste and Czester were three weeks and five days old when they made their first expedition beyond the threshold of my bedroom, the new lot are almost as quick to explore (four weeks and two days old). 

I was sure at first that all five kittens are male; today, I can see that I was wrong. Below: the last-born; originally Quinto/Kwinto; turns out it's a girl. So meet Quintessence/Kwintesencja. La Quinta. She has a normal-length tail. She was the first out of my bedroom and into the kitchen. Like her mother Céleste, a natural-born explorer.

Below: Quinta's twin is a boy; the facial markings are very similar, but the face is more masculine and there's less white on the chest. But a stumpy tail, just like mum's and his two tabby uncles, Arcturus and Pacyfik. No name yet for the li'l fella yet. [Update Sunday 28 June: There is a name – it is Mars. As in the fourth planet (this was the fourth-born kitten), son of Céleste, and of course grandson of Wenus. A letter 'M' on the forehead. And a martial face."Brothers and sisters – pump up the volume."]

And the second kitten without a name. Another grey tabby, this time with more white. Is it a girl or a boy? "It's confusing these days/But moon dust will cover you/Cover you/This chaos is killing me."

[Update Sunday 28 June: it is a girl. It is a sister twin. There is a name: Memphis. As in Tennessee? Or Ancient Egypt? Both, of course. With an 'M' on the forehead.]

Below: Five feeding. The two greys (uh, down there somewhere) are Wiktor (grey with white collar) and Dorian (grey). Céleste is, like her mother Wenusia before her, an absolute natural at the job. Half way through it. [Update Sunday 28 June: It seems that the grey identical twins, Dorian and Wiktor, have Wobbly Kitten Syndrome, Dorian being the worse affected. Feline Cerebellar Hypoplasia.]

And finally, a memory from a year ago when Wenusia's brood were this age. Here's Scrapper. Today, the once-pugnacious Scrapper gets on with every other (adult) cat, goes out on walks with me. An all-round even-tempered guy, a super chap. If he could, I know Scrapper would buy me a pint. Scrapper, mate, I'm so happy that you and your brothers and your sister are 100% healthy.

This time 11 years ago:
Vote now in the citizen's participatory budget

This time 12 years:
Where's the beef? Fillet steaks in Warsaw

This time 13 years ago:
W-wa Zachodnia spruced up for the football, W-wa Stadion reopened

This time 14 years ago:
Literature and biology

This time 17 years ago:
Old Nysa van spotted in Grabów

This time 18 years ago:
The oats in the neighbouring field rise high

Brexit and the war between Britain's two elites

Ten years on from the Brexit referendum. Economically, the outcome of leaving the single European market and Customs Union are clear; the UK's GDP per capita is between 4% and 8% smaller than it would have been had the UK remained in. Brexit has negatively impacted trade and investment; Britain exports less, employs fewer people, than its economy would have done otherwise.

Brexit didn't lead to a social and economic collapse; it's more like a slow puncture than a high-speed blow-out. Correct me if I'm wrong. but nothing is better in Britain today than it was before. [However, Brexiteers like to point out that since the end of 2019, the UK economy has grown by 6.0% compared to Germany's pathetic 0.8% growth. But then France grew by 6.6%, and Poland by 15.5%.]

Britain's polluted rivers and beaches are an excellent example; without EU regulatory safeguards, the national legislator (Westminster) was free to bow to pressure from the interests (the water companies, their CEOs and shareholders) and hey presto – 'costly red-tape' is removed. Bathing among bobbing turds is the result.

Another example. Migration from EU member states fell to a trickle after Brexit, but it was replaced by the 'Boris wave' with non-EU workers turning up legally in record numbers (long-term net inbound migration in the 12 months to March 2023 was an all-time high of 944,000, the bulk of those being health- and care workers). 

If you voted for Brexit without a clear plan for how leaving the EU would make you richer and more powerful, then you were gamed by those who did.

The stereotypical privately educated, swashbuckling Brexiteer would say: "I believe in free enterprise! Global trade unrestricted by Brussels! National sovereignty! Cut red tape for growth!" Yet in practice, this tended to mean: "I want maximum freedom to move capital, buy cheap inputs, outsource production, hire cheaper labour, avoid regulation, lower consumer standards and weaken labour-market protections." Meanwhile, the disadvantaged local worker experienced the consequences: insecure employment with zero-hours contracts, lower bargaining power, loss of status, degraded high streets and a sense that 'our people' were no longer valued. 

However, framed in the context of Brexit, the boss could present himself not as the agent of the changes negatively affecting the English white working class, but as a fellow victim: "Brussels made British business uncompetitive! EU regulation tied our hands! Free movement put pressure on services and wages! The political elite in London ignored you! Vote Leave and we will take back control!"

This was politically brilliant, turning the old class conflict into something external. So, instead of boss vs worker, it became local people vs Brussels, the UK vs the EU; common sense vs experts.

I would frame the Brexit referendum as a battle between two elites; the old and the new. The old – typically privately educated, full of ruling-class confidence, still imbued with the old national myths, feeling a need for sovereignty, and disdainful of bureaucratic constraint – especially if it flows from abroad. "From Harrow School/To rise and rule." The private-school-aristocratic tradition says: lead, improvise, command the room, trust instinct and treat bureaucracy as something for clerks. 

The new elite is quite different. From humbler backgrounds, humanities graduates from white-tile universities, grammar-school educated, believing in meritocracy, ethically guided and trusting expertise.

Brexiteers, be they the old elite or the put-upon working classes, see this new elite as the problem. "Woke theoreticians, who've never done a day's real work (plumbing, bricklaying, toolmaking, nursing, bus-driving) in their lives. Citizens of anywhere rather than citizens of somewhere."

There were two contradictory visions of the sunny uplands that would result from Brexit: a Singapore-on-Thames where freewheeling capitalism was to regain control; free to strike deals all over the world, bringing in cheaper labour from the former British colonies to supplant EU citizens; the other vision – an autarkic Brexit Britain with closed borders, tariff walls and a return to the certainties of the 1950s. The white working class longed for the latter. They were unwittingly fooled into voting for the former. 

You never saw this dark ad; funded by billionaires, it targeted the thick community

If you ask a Brexiteer why leaving the EU has been a failure, they will answer "it's because we've not had a proper Brexit." Probe further and they'll either tell you that a proper Brexit would have been total economic liberalisation, deregulation and full openness to trade with the Rest of the World, or else a proper Brexit that would have slammed shut the borders on just about everyone who's not British (or at least a native-speaker of English). Two entirely contradictory visions that mutually exclude one another. The nearest the UK got to the freewheeling capitalism vision was the 49-day-long premiership of Liz Truss. It turned out that the bond markets did not share that vision, preferring steady long-term returns to the kinds of risks taken by hedge-fund managers. 

EU membership, like Gaza, is one of those political issues that touches not the day-to-day lives of British voters. Call-in radio shows on LBC showed time and time again that the average Brexit voter, fired up by the notion that "no one in Brussels is going to tell them how to lead their lives" was unable to name a single EU law that has impacted their lives. Sovereignty is an emotion. 

Supreme lack of interest in EU matters converted into erroneous tropes ("unelected bureaucrats" – a bit like "unelected bus conductors") and going to the polls ten years ago not so much as to regain sovereignty (whatever that means) but to give a kicking to the incumbent prime minister David Cameron and his Tory government. The toffs and the oiks ganged up on the Guardianista blob and won.

Biggest Waitrose queue in history

Is this a negation of democracy? Yeah, kind of. People who could not explain the difference between an EU directive (transposed into national law by member states, allowing some variation) and an EU regulation (directly applicable and uniform across the single market) have no right to vote on such momentous decisions. These should be left to their elected officials. Imagine if flat-earthers won a referendum that determined the future direction of science. Cameron will go down in history as a foolish chancer. 

Below: paperwork that an EU-based importer needs to complete before importing a pallet of goods from the UK post-Brexit. Before Brexit, all that was needed was an invoice. Why should an EU-based importer bother with all this when they can import from Germany, France, Italy or Spain with zero hassle? This is why British small businesses have been thoroughly clobbered by Brexit: exporting to the EU has been made vastly more difficult for them. Clobber small exporters and the result shows up in the nation's GDP figures.

[Thanks to Chris Watts at Intuition Bathrooms, Warsaw]

Britain is repenting. Rejoining the EU will be harder and take much longer than leaving it. No one born this century voted for Brexit, yet it's hurting them most. I hope for a swift return.

This time last year:
Janowiec and Mięćmierz

This time two years ago:
Big Walk to Zalesie Górne

This time six years ago:
My return to central Warsaw after lockdown

This time seven years ago:

From Peace of Mind to State of Elation

This time eight years ago
Last summer before S7 works begin

This time nine years ago
Nostalgia, ideology, aesthetics, emotions

This time 11 years ago:
Civilisation and barbarism – how the former deals with the latter

This time 12 years ago:
Ahead of the opening of Jeziorki's Biedronka

This time 13 years ago:
New views of Jeziorki

This time 14 years ago:
Motorway finally links (the outskirts of) Łódź and (the outskirts of) Warsaw

This time 17 years ago:
Kraków Air Museum

This time 18 years ago:
Quintessential Jeziorki

This time 19 years ago: 
Little boxes, Mysiadło 

As I walked out one midsummer's morning

I've used this title before – borrowed from Laurie Lee.

The sun rises at a quarter past four. Most people are still in bed until at least seven thirty. Today, I rose, as I do, early – at quarter past five, having gone to bed shortly after nine yesterday evening. And yet I still missed an hour of daylight!

My recent habit of early starts have one big benefit; they extend the length of summer as I subjectively experience it. The addition of two daylight hours a day every day between the equinoxes is the equivalent of stretching summer out by around one eighth. That sunlight can be converted into boosted levels of melatonin, serotonin and endorphin, which bring about blissful feelings. "Increase the joy in your life by 12% - FREE!"

The early, pre-breakfast walk in the sun need not be long (5,400 paces today, 4,900 yesterday for example) but it is optimal for bringing on that sought-after state of elation. On an empty stomach, the transcendental benefits of extended fasting bring on a gently altered state. Before eight am and it is already hot; my armpits are sweaty. The paths are sandy, the smell of pine-resin is in the air.

The cherry season has begun; I know where the unkept, unfenced, unsprayed orchards are. The cherries are ripening, a few are already ripe for picking. Given that there's no health benefit of eating more than one portion (80g) of a given fruit in any one day, a few handfuls is all I need before turning home for breakfast.

Ripening cherries. Never ask me whose.

Two midsummer garden anecdotes to recount… Yesterday morning, around 11 am, I went out to chuck out some kitchen waste onto the compost heap at the end of the garden. On my way back, I could hear stirrings in the bushes. "Too big for a cat," I thought. I took three paces forward, and saw an adult roe deer crashing through the undergrowth, across the path and into the trees, no more than about ten yards away from me. It was so sudden and over in an instant, there was no chance to whip out the phone to catch it. This is only the second time I've witnessed deer in my garden. 

A deer in a nearby meadow, last week. The same one?

And today, around 10 am, sitting in the kitchen, front door open, I was aware that the cats were uneasy… something was up. Scrapper, Czester, Arcturus, Hipek and Céleste were milling around outside… suddenly there was a loud feline shriek and action – cats running around every which way. Then I caught sight of him, again, it was just a flash – the grey tomcat that had fathered Céleste's kittens. She chased after him, evidently furious with him, up the path to the drive. I left the kitchen and ran out after them. I caught up with Céleste, sitting on the drive. She had seen him off; no sight of him. 

Cause and effect

Some seven or eight years ago, a visitor to my działka left an almost-full packet of cigarettes behind. Since then, these come in handy for recreating holiday qualia memory. This is a rare occurrence; twice a year, but only if the circumstances are right. 

Today, they are exactly right. The sun is shining; it is hot (30°C outside), there's no rush, it's a lazy day. The kitchen smells of fried food (breakfast: smoked salmon, fried bacon-style, with scrambled egg, served on bread fried in olive oil) and coffee. I light a cigarette from the gas stove; no puffing on it! I impale it upon a wire stand, angled upward at 45 degrees, it smoulders away, with a jar-lid underneath to catch the ashes. Eventually, it goes out; the smell, however, lingers. Time, now, to open a bottle of craft lager from the fridge. And PAFF! I am sitting at that brasserie overlooking the beach in Stella-Plage. All that's missing is the sea… Qualia memory, recreated. (I've done this in winter too; lots of snow outside, blue sky, sharp frost, and I'm brought back to an alpine bar, high up in the French Alps.)

A few hours later, I am in the back garden, picking wild strawberries (poziomki). As I get down among the weeds to fish out the tiny fruit, I notice the lingering smell of the cigarette smoke on my shirt. Marvellous! The Perfume of the Past. Instant nostalgia for the klimat of times when most people smoked. 

Incidentally, this year I notice no, like zero, wild strawberries with rodent nibble-marks upon them. Another bonus of cat ownership!

This time nine years ago:
Jeziorki's grey herons
Cygnets up close

This time 11 years ago:
Midsummer's Day in Jeziorki

This time 13 years ago:
Kittens at six weeks

This time 15 years ago:
And the Lord spake unto the tribe of Hipsters

This time 16 years ago:
Exit polls can get it wrong

This time 17 years ago:
In search of good Polish beer
[Situation's much better, thankfully!]

This time 18 years ago:
In the Solstice garden

Completely automatic

 {{ O! Hail the murky corners of the ethernet! Have a go, do, you have-a-go hero! Tongue-tied and mouse-like, entertaining nobility but from when... from when...? Very civil. Un-rude, moving in the right way. Taken to task and found, wanting. Wanting more.

Another slurp and what does the label say? Return yet not to reality. Try to rise. Rank, metre, sensibility. Thirty more. Stagger, stutter, play out the back office, heated memories, I vaguely shudder. Looping the close. Or closing the loop. Turning helplessness into bait. Untrammelled exotica, as yet catalogued by only the few. The few, who, to do morose facial expressions, ignore the rulebook. Five down. They cast aside the entertaining puzzles and took they the straight road. Again and again and again. Grovelling to authority, farcical fiascos. Set it all upon a flag, hoist it up above the hotel, and ask at the bar for a guide. 

Let it flow. Another sip, feel it. Type those words, familiar and unfamiliar, as they swim in the dark canal, bobbing along. Bubbles of experience. Won't say no. The road has changed, alongside it new bauble-shops. Threshing separates the genuine offers, observe. Count 'em! One by one, some fall, some stand. Purity of conscious flow? Nuggets, bobbing along? Facsimiles of facsimiles – our common history pledges to one and all the harness of our fate, collective and individual, through to times' end. 

Hendon in the 1930s. Billboards, burps, pavements, garden gates and lilac. Now, then, what's this – a henhouse? Pastimes from older times. The men who wrote down train numbers in little books. Crystallise, coalesce – do! From the inchoate to the precise, we are waiting, for a sign, a name, a clue... Hazel? Aerodrome...? Pixelated senses. Waste no time here. Jump.

Go. To the wireless set. Tuned at random. Hilversum. Droitwich. Midnight in Moscow. Sensible chords, the human condition, tapping in. What are you thinking? What will you be thinking, thirty years hence? I write this before you read it. A Walk in the Black Forest? Again, the familiar resurfaces. References caught by the few, inevitably lost to the future. To be found by someone who tries to make some sense of them but is roundly mocked by the experts in the field. Milk floats, that sort of thing. Hold onto the wire. James Clerk Maxwell and his equations. Enjoying the fruits of his genius, aren't we? Solid halls of plenty. The curtain must fall, though. Rage. Our happy consumption approaches its dénouement, its apotheosis. Rage is natural, pure, unfocused. From its abatement harmony rises. A flash, a moth, a flying thing. Hendon in the thirties again! Steam power too; hammering through suburban halts with the crack express. 

Kill your darlings? That's that whole paragraph gone in the edit.

Thirty pieces of silver. Certainly a lot at the time. Buy some land, plant some trees. And see what grows, see how it grows, see what fate has in store for those living things. The evening is both exciting and weary at the same time, the stew is on the fire, rich, chewy chunks of beef, potato and carrot – poor Tom, another piece of toasted cheese? Ideas bounce, ricochet, coalesce, ideas old and new, a whole night's sleep before the next cup of coffee. I love the sound of breaking glass. I do! Pop fineness, pop finesse. We keep circling the same point. Air races. Flavours, crunchy snacks. Exit poll? An hour away. Junction 25.

Keep going, refuse the instinct to quit. It is shallow, ordinary, common. It is what draws the football supporter to the game; the base spectacle of physical determination. Never give up. A flawed metaphor; sometimes you need to close the book and walk away. O, the pain of memory. Things you think but must never say. At the Last Judgment, it will be memory that brings you down. Embarrassment. Atone now, but feel that freedom from guilt will never quite unburden your soul. Again, that's next time. Better, finer-tuned instinct. Impulse under mandate. Begotten, not made. Buzz-buzz notification enters my stream of consciousness. Experimental. XP, XB, XA. Over the field. Excitement and hopes. I am hungry – I want to eat. A large bag of chippy chips, salt and vinegar and a pickled onion. A night out, mate! What could be better? Pale ale followed by chips. Whatever flows, whatever is recorded, imagined, experienced. My fingers are flying over the keyboard. The sense of north-west London, the North Circular, upstairs on the bus, the smell of stale tobacco smoke, the conductor's ticket machine issuing a 6d ticket, early autumn settling in, tall clouds against a blue sky...

I am hungry. I do want to eat. }}

Stop.

This time three years ago:
The sights of summer

This time four years ago
Warka Miasto

This time five years ago:

Elegy for a lost exurbia

This time six years ago:
Farewell to Papuś

This seven years ago:

Classic cars, Ealing

This time eight years ago
Seven Brief Lessons on Physics reviewed

This time nine years ago:
Now it belongs to the ages – on Great Works of Art

This time ten years ago:
More Brictorian Liverpool

This time 11 years ago:
Łódź – city of tenements

This time 12 years ago:
Liverpool reborn

This time 13 years ago:
What goes round comes around: retro is cool - again.

This time 14 years ago:
Warsaw's southern bypass by this time next year?

This time 15 years ago:
Stand Easy! - a short story

This time 18 years ago:
God Save The Queen – I mean it, Ma'am

Wenusia's kittens at one year old, Céleste's kittens at three weeks

A celebratory day on the działka today, with five birthdays; Scrapper, Arcturus, Pacyfik, Czester and Céleste are all one year old, born on 14 June 2025. Scrapper celebrated by killing and eating a squirrel. Meanwhile, back in the same birthing box in which she was born a year go, Céleste continues to feed her five kittens, who are now approaching three weeks old. Wenus, now a grandmother, pops by every now and then, but tends to hiss and growl at the new kittens. And let's not forget Hipek the stray, who's become a permanent fixture. Big, white with black patches, and unflappably gently, even when Wenus swipes at him and Pacyfik hisses.

My działka is a wonderland for the cats. It's the place for cats. As safe as can be; motorised traffic along the top end of my lane is no more than an average of four or five movements a day - this is not Jeziorki where an endless stream of cars bomb down ulica Karczunkowska. An acre of garden, a forest next door, kindly neighbours who'll happily serve up ham and milk, and the knowledge that there are three square meals a day plus treats at my place. And my cats have the best company - they have each other, whom they have known since birth. They live, eat and sleep in the place where they were born. Attachment to place, to their siblings, and to their human guardian - very important factors in a stable and happy feline life.

Left: year-old brothers taking a snooze. Notice that Czester still has his anti-tick collar; Scrapper has lost his, as have Arcturus and Pacyfik. I found one on my drive, which I fitted to Hipek, as the old fella was plagued with ticks when he started showing up; now with the collar on he is clear of the pests. I check the three collarless cats for ticks every day. Ticks suck.

Meanwhile, back in the birthing box, the ever-gorgeous Céleste is doing well. Like Wenusia when she was breastfeeding, Céleste has an enormous appetite. However, unlike Wenusia, Céleste faces fraternal competition at the feeding station, so I ensure that she has priority over her brothers."Lady Madonna, babies at your breast/Wonder how you manage to feed the rest". All are putting on weight at an exemplary manner, ranging between 272g and 342g at three weeks.

Like her mother, Céleste will be taken to the vet for sterilisation once she stops breastfeeding. In the case of Wenus, this was at an astonishing 14 weeks. Sadly, once weaned, the mother-kitten relationship soon evaporates. Post-sterilisation, Wenusia's character changed; I could sense a resentment towards me, towards her kittens, towards fate, etc. She has become distant, introverted.

Below: here are all the new kittens – all male – on my duvet while I change their bedding (Céleste is losing a lot of fur from her underside). 

So far, two kittens are showing behavioural characteristics that mark them out from the rest – here they are, the last born (left), this is grey tabby Quinto (Kwinto or Kwintuś in Polish), the fifth and last born, and Wiktor (right), the first born. These are the first two to venture outside of their birthing box. They are also the lightest and heaviest of the five. Grey-and-white Wiktor will be a longhair like his mother. More names to follow as characters develop.

Left: the Squirrel Hunter. The entire animal was devoured within an hour and half by Scrapper, assisted by his brother Pacyfik. I feel sad at the death of any animal, but then this is cats doing what cats do. An occasional dead thrush or mole appears on the drive from time to time, but I cannot speak of any sort of local 'wildlife apocalypse' brought on by my cats.

Below: Arcturus (left) and Pacyfik (right), woken up abruptly to have their picture taken. These two are identical twins. Arcturus, who uses his paws to eat and signal with, is the only son of Wenus not to have been castrated. He doesn't do smelly wees, nor is he aggressive. His dexterity should be allowed to evolve further into new generations... should there be an unspayed female in the vicinity.

Below: Ol' Mistah Heaps (Hipek). In old age he has found sanctuary; a warm, safe place with food and love. Wenusia and Pacyfik hiss and growl at Hipek, but everyone else is fine with him, and he is gentle with everyone, including those that hiss at him – he does not retaliate; he radiates gratitude, and has a lovely snore (like a human baby).

Below: portrait of Wenusia, the matriarch. Mother of five, grandmother of five, and she's not two years old yet. Great-grandmotherhood not on the cards, as Céleste will be sterilised, and she only has male kittens. Unless Arcturus gets lucky, but that's not something we'll know about.

This time last year:
Kitten time again!

This time five years ago:
The Morning Road Walked

This time 12 years ago:
Poppies in bloom, Jeziorki

This time 16 years ago:

Historical photos of work in progress on the S79

This time 19 years ago:
The year nears its zenith