Little Victories In The Unending War With Entropy

Time's arrow goes one way, from past through the present (which passes in a tiny fraction of a second) to the future. Unlike other dimensions, if indeed time is a dimension. I can walk forwards, I can walk backwards. I can jump up, I can fall down. I can move left, I can move right. But time has only one direction. The reason? Entropy. It's why you can't unstir cream from coffee or resurrect a rotting strawberry. If you have something – anything – it will break. Just a matter of time.

We cannot make time go backwards, but we can slow it down. Take care of your things and they will serve you better, for longer. And save money. 

My daughter's car (below) has been with me now for over two and half years (she's still the legal owner). She bought it in 2020, just after lockdown (we celebrated its purchase with a curry in Ursynów, being among the restaurant's first customers after it re-opened). Before that, it had one owner, the mother of a boy that Moni was at primary school with. A nice family. Good provenance. This 1.2 litre Micra was built in 2005; it sat unsold in Slovakia for two years, after which it was transferred to the Polish market where it quickly found its first owner.

It currently has 147,000 km on the clock, just 7,000km more than it did when I took it for its first przegląd techniczny (Polish equivalent of the annual MoT test) two years ago. 

The car passed the test with flying colours, the guy running the testing station could not find a fault with it, although he made the following observation... "You drive the car sparingly; you don't thrash the engine. You slow down using the gearbox, and driving steadily on quiet country roads that you know well, you hardly ever have to use the brakes. As a result, the disks have developed a slight bloom of rust. Not enough to fail the test, but enough for me to notice. So next time you go for a drive, apply the brakes hard once or twice just to clear the brake disks of any rust."  Will do! 

I am grateful to the car. After a drive to the shops and back (in Warka, once a week), I pat the roof and say to the car "well done!" and thank it for its reliable and economical service. It's all I need from a car.

Another little victory in the unending war with entropy took place under the sink, which over the past year since a plumber last unblocked it, had once again been taking longer and longer to drain. The cause of the blockage – most probably traces of cat food, remnants left in bowls or tins. Ghastly stuff if you think about it – fatty offal mostly. 

Last year's call to the plumber was about three issues, of which the kitchen sink was the easiest to fix, the others being the garden tap and the hot-water tank in the bathroom. Cost of fixing all three – 800zł. The plumber told me that I'd be condemned to regular sink blockages, because when the house was originally built, the run-off was installed at an insufficiently steep angle. "Do everything you can to avoid solids going down there, however small," he advised.

ChatGPT offered me a simple solution to the blocked sink – sodium hydroxide crystals. Sold in Poland under the Kret brand (unavailable in the UK), this is powerful stuff. Clear the house of cats and kittens! Don thick rubber gloves! Open all windows! Don't breathe the fumes! Following the AI instructions for the use of Kret, I poured 200ml of very hot (but not boiling) water down the sink. Then two and a third capfuls of the sodium hydroxide crystals. Then another 300ml of very hot water. Then wait half an hour, taking care to avoid the fumes emerging from the plug-hole.

At last I filled the sink with hot tap water.... No difference. The water was going down very slowly, if at all. But I was prepared for this. I wielded a sink plunger (which I had previously used to zero effect). But now... after the application of Kret, with a sinkful of water... plunger deployed... a couple of hearty pumps, and then a gratifying 'BLGRGRGRGRGLLL' and sudden drainage: the water disappeared as rightfully it should. All good! The Kret had softened and partly dissolved the greasy obstruction, but did not clear it outright. The plunger then supplied the mechanical pressure needed to dislodge the loosened plug. Neither the plunger nor the Kret on their own could shift the blockage, but the combination did. Result!

This time last year:|
The perpetual search for authenticity

This time three years ago:
A dog day's night walk

This time four years ago:
Old soul, new challenge

This time five year ago:
What happened at Monks Wood

This time seven years ago:
Loss, faith and consolation

This time nine years ago:
Summer's wasting away

This time ten years ago:
Warsaw remembers the PASTa building capture

This time 11 years ago:
Drought. It was a dry summer.

This time 13 years ago:
Warsaw's ski slope at Szczęśliwice

This time 14 years ago:
On the road from Dobra, again

This time 15 years ago:
August storm, ul. Targowa

This time 16 years ago:
Warsaw Central's secret underground kebab factory

This time 17 years ago:
Cheap holidays in other people's misery

This time 18 years ago:
Steam welcomes us to Dobra

This time 19 years ago:
New houses appear in the fields by Zgorzała

Confined.

Here we are, Tuesday morning; Day Four of Céleste's recuperation indoors. I remember why Wenusia's post-sterilisation time was so difficult. Céleste is sitting on the windowsill; she is looking me in the eyes, miaowing most plaintively. "Please let me out!" she is trying to say... It was so much easier when I had her brothers castrated. Kept inside overnight and they were allowed out the very next morning.

I have decided to keep Céleste's five kittens inside as well. Unlike Arcturus, Czester, Pacyfik, Scrapper and indeed Céleste, all of whom I allowed out albeit sparingly while Wenusia was in recovery mode, the current brood is a full six weeks younger and currently less demanding of the outdoor life. So they play, sleep and eat exclusively indoors, offering emotional support and solidarity to their incarcerated mother.

As ever, ChatGPT is really useful with explanations and tips in this situation. It warns against early release, saying that an ill-judged leap could tear internal wounds that have not fully healed, and suggests "leaving treats hidden around the house" to keep Céleste amused.

********

Comparing Wiktor, Dorian, Fisia, Mars and Kwincia with their uncles' generation, I see one big difference – toilet training. This lot are far worse. There are regular poos left in the cat baskets, behind the sofa, under my bed or on the bathroom floor. Somehow Wenusia proved to be far more rigorous in teaching her kittens where they can and where they can't defecate. Yesterday, I picked up my rucksack before going out and it smelled of cat wee. A quick spray of sandalwood-scented air freshener did the trick.

Having all the kittens in the house all the time with mum means I can observe the rhythm of their daily lives; the three modes, and how they toggle between them. There's a beautiful time when the manic activity of play – chasing, fighting, knocking things over – settles into a period of serene rest. One by one, they find somewhere to crash and switch off. Eventually, the house becomes quiet. Mum (below) has settled down on the sofa, giving pause to her pleas for early release.

Kwińcia finds a spot by my laptop (below). A safe place to nap.

Below: Wiktor (I currently call him 'Wiktol', as my children would have called him before they could pronounce their 'r's properly) cleaning his toes prior to dropping off on the windowsill.

Adult cats are far more careful and tend not to knock things over; I have to a great extent kitten-proofed the house, but now and then, things fall. Nothing serious; a tin of cat food from the top of the fridge, a dustpan-and-brush from the windowsill in the sień.

Having Céleste and her five kittens in all the time means serving out a whole lot more cat food. They are joined at mealtimes by their elders; first thing this morning I had all 12 cats and kittens gathered around the bowls all chomping away, quite something. I have become a zookeeper; feeding time in the small-cat enclosure. To keep costs down, I have downloaded the Biedronka app and started going there, to play off one retail chain (Lidl) against the other (Biedronka). I check out the cat-food offers in both shops. Buy-one-get-one-free deals get me through one door rather than the other. The savings can be immense. For the cats it means greater access to the premium stuff that I'd not be buying at regular prices.

Once Céleste has recovered, I hope she will be through with vets for a long, long time. Her daughters will (sadly) need to be sterilised; their only hope of procreation is if someone reaches out to me wanting a healthy, whole young female or two to produced a litter of darling kittens. (If you do, let me know! Kwincia and Fisia are up for adoption to anyone wanting to experience the joy of being surrounded by kittens. Easily beats exotic holidays!)

Interesting to read this post from October of last year for the contrast between the postoperative days for Wenusia and Céleste...

This time last year:
Consciously, mindfully, averting misfortune

This time two years ago:
Warsaw's progress to normality

This time five years ago:
Summer winding down

This time nine years ago:
My Mazovian roots

This time ten years ago:
My father revisits his battleground

This time 12 years ago:
Over the hill at Harrow

This time 13 years ago:
Behold and See – the Miracle of Lublin – Pt 1.

This time 15 years ago:
Quiet afternoon in the bazaar

This time 15 years ago:
The politics of the symbol

Céleste is sterilised

Another inevitable heartbreaking moment. I called the vet on Monday and arranged to drop off Céleste on Friday morning for sterilisation. Nearly ten weeks after she gave birth, the risk of her falling pregnant again was growing by the day. Unfamiliar tomcats have started showing up; Céleste has been asking to be let out at night in no uncertain way. 

All week I had this feeling that the cats were expecting that some big bad event will happen. When and to whom they did not know. They all paced around in a state of rare unease. Céleste would often look up at me with a questioning expression on her face.

Wednesday and Thursday saw Céleste still busily feeding her brood. All five kittens clustered round her, chugging away noisily.

The cat carrying box was made ready last night; I slept in as late as I could, getting out of bed at half-past seven, quickly got dressed, popped Céleste into the box and put her in the car. Then I returned to feed all the other cats (vets operate on cats with empty digestive tracts, so Céleste got no breakfast). Then I returned to the car and drove the short distance to the vets, arriving at ten to eight. Outside there was already one patient (a Yorkie) with its owner waiting; a minute I arrived another car pulled in with a cat and its owners. It's a busy time for the vets.

The vet called me around one pm, I drove over to collect Céleste. As with Wenusia's op, this one went smoothly.  Below: Céleste has just woken up from the anaesthetic. The kaftan is on. I asked the vet to put it on, as I was completely unable to do this for Wenus on my own.

She was soon at home, surrounded by her kittens. Céleste was in better shape, not shivering and shaking as Wenusia was on return from the vets. She now needs to spend the whole of next week in the house, wearing a kaftan. This was a real problem with Wenusia, who during the last days of her involuntary confinement sought to take every chance to escape outdoors. Below: Céleste has just woken up from the anaesthetic. She is groggy and confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. 

Below: back home, Céleste lay down on the doormat, surrounded by kittens Wiktor, Kwińcia and Dorian.

Neither Wenus nor Céleste will be bringing any more kittens into the world, lovely and sweet though kittens are. I keep telling myself that it's for the best, as it was for her mum. The girls have already fulfilled their maternal purpose. Wenusia's character changed after the operation; she became aloof and started hissing at her offspring and and swiping at them with her paw; today spends most of her time outdoors, calling into the house twice or three times a day for a feed ("You treat my house as a diner!"). Her castrated sons might spend the night outdoors, but once they've eaten breakfast, they usually go out for a poo and then return to my front room for an all-day snooze, punctuated by leisurely walks to the kitchen for the regular openings of tins or sachets of cat food. My front room has become a feline gentleman's club. 

Wenusia had her op 16 weeks after giving birth; Céleste a full six weeks earlier. I would recommend not leaving it. This is a good time. The sooner the better, the quicker the recovery.

Right now, Friday evening, she's in the kitchen sitting on her haunches, her gaze fixed on the floor. She's been like that for the past hour. I wonder what thoughts are going through her head? Is she aware of what the humans have done to her? Would she regret not being able to give birth again? Or does she feel relief that she will never have to repeat that experience?

In the meantime, my current priority is to survive to next Friday morning, when I can finally remove the kaftan and let Céleste out into the garden. She needs fattening up too. Having spent two months on her side breastfeeding, and losing hair, Céleste is stick-thin, resembling a weasel. So her calls to be let out will be answered with cat food and milk (and plain Greek-style yogurt).

Will Céleste's character change? I hope not. I know that her long hair will grow back (the vet confirmed this too) and she will regain her grace and beauty.

Kittens bring great joy, especially between the second and fourth month of their development. All that scampering, play and softness. However, I know that neither my budget nor the size of my house can accommodate another litter. If I can find a new home for Memphis and Kwintesencja, on the basis that their new owner(s) want whole females that will one day deliver kittens, then they will go. If not, I will have them sterilised and hold my cat count at twelve.

[In other feline news: yesterday evening, having come back from my walk, I noticed that the internet wasn't working. A kitten had chewed through the power cable for the router. This is my second kitten-related cable loss, the first being the charger for my phone. Fortunately, I found a 220V-in/10V-out cable with the same connector in the attic from an old router, this cable being about three times thicker than the chewed one. I had to buy a replacement phone-charger cable (59 zł); again I bought the thickest one in the shop.]  

Update, Saturday 1 August: in the cat tower, the kittens cluster around their mum, who spent a comfortable night. From the left (looking down) is Memphis ('Fisia'), then Mars, centrally positioned is Wiktor, then looking down is Dorian ('Łobler'), Céleste, one eye opened, one eye closed, and above her, Kwintesencja ('Kwińcia').

This time last year:
Late-July photo round-up

This time three years ago:
Late-July photo round-up

This time five years ago:
Stewardship of the Land, Jakubowizna

This time six years ago:
The cost of Covid complacency

This time seven years ago:

Uprising commemoration – Day Three

This time eight years ago:
Ahead of the Big Day

This time ten years ago:
Once in a blue moon

This time 12 years ago:
A return to Snowdon – Wales' highest peak

This time 13 years ago:
On the eve of Warsaw's Veturillo revolution

This time 15 years ago:
Getting ready for the 'W'-hour flypast

This time 16 years ago:
A century of Polish scouting

The kittens at two months

Peak kitten cuteness? Between six and ten weeks. They are playful and scamper about, they are now going outside, watched over by their mother and Hipek (who feels that he can play a useful role in his adopted colony). The kittens still breastfeed, though less regularly and have started going over to solids, in particular the paté type. Fresh water is always on hand as is 0.5% ultra-low-fat milk. 

Dorian, the stumpy-tailed wobbly kitten, and his twin Wiktor (who is just slightly wobbly and has a normal tail), are fine, accepted by their  mother and their siblings as part of the group. Dorian will not let his disability hold him back. Is he aware of his difficulties in coordinating the movement of his legs? How does his cerebellar hypoplasia affect his experience of life? Am I just imagining it, projecting it onto him, but is there a stoic, almost cheerful acceptance in his feline mind? He can climb up into the cat tower without difficulty. He plays, play-fights, grooms and chases the others (and they him) without any changes to the rules. I am, however, wary of these Dorian and Wiktor going astray outdoors, especially when I catch sight of a buzzard overhead. Below: Dorian play-fighting with Mars.

The other three are developing ideally. Mars and Kwintesencja, tabby twins, are distinguishable only by sex and tail length (Mars is a stumpy-tailed male, Kwincia is a normal-tailed female); both are explorers eager to push the envelope of how far they can roam. Memphis (Fisia) is a female tabby, and displays white fur on her throat, neck and undersides; she has a mid-length tail with just one kinked bone. 

Below: the five tend to all sleep together. Céleste no longer fits with them all present, so breastfeeding is done on the floor. We see here Kwincia (left) and Wiktor, the rest are all uh, down there somewhere.

Below: time for some fresh air – Mars (centre) leads Dorian (left) and Wiktor (right) towards the open kitchen door. Notice the focused expression on Mars's face. 

Meanwhile, mum Céleste has been losing fur at an alarming rate. Her face is familiar but her head seems to have shrunk (below).

This hair loss is both hormonal and seasonal. During pregnancy, elevated hormone levels hold hair follicles in an extended growth phase. Around six to eight weeks after giving birth, those hormone levels plummet. At the same time, peak milk production has placed immense metabolic demand on her body, which today is as thin as a weasel's. This shift forces a large percentage of her hair follicles into a resting phase simultaneously ('telogen effluvium'). The result is a dramatic, synchronised blow-out of her undercoat and long guard-hairs, making her head look noticeably smaller. [Here she is, La Contessa, in midwinter, coat by Courrèges.] All this was going on during last month's heatwave. Long-haired cats naturally drop their dense thermal undercoat during summer. In temperatures over 25°C, dropping fur is Céleste's body's natural defense against heat-stroke while trapped under a pile of warm kittens.

Lying on her side for hours on end creates warmth, humidity and constant mechanical friction against Céleste's flanks. Combined with loose shedding fur that hasn't been brushed out (frequent brushing was put on hold during the breastfeeding weeks), dense dreadlocks quickly formed. This mass of matted hair had to be removed, gently, with minimal use of scissors, aided by Céleste herself who'd be gnawing on the base of the locks. The whole lot finally came off as one large piece, looking somewhat like a false beard.

The internet assures me that Céleste's fur – the undercoat and long guard-hairs – will all have grown back by the winter. The internet also warns me to arrange an appointment with the vet to sterilise Céleste as soon as possible. Sterilisation will, sadly, be the fate of Fisia and Kwincia; the prospect of looking after 22 cats by the end of 2027 is too much. I'm already close to the point where my monthly cat-food bill is approaching the amount I spend on feeding myself.  Céleste is eating seven or eight times a day; she is stick-thin after two months of nursing the little ones, so whenever she calls for food she gets food.

The two female kittens are destined not to experience the joy and pain of motherhood... unless someone wants to take them as whole females with the intention of letting them breed (an outdoor lifestyle has to be provided for them). The joy of kittens is extraordinarily special.

And let's not forget grandmother, Wenusia. She comes by in the morning for breakfast and pops in a few times during the day. Once fed, she will put her paw on the side of my leg, which means "lift me up and stroke me, don't forget that once I was your one and only cat." I do so, she wanders off, contented, I hope.

This time four years ago:
Automatic writing: to where (and when) will the muse take me?

This time five years ago:
New phone, new laptop, Part II

This time six years ago:
Two images from my early childhood

This time seven years ago:
How PKP PLK's planners should treat pedestrian station users.

This time eight years ago:
Foreign exchange: don't get diddled!
[for the saps who pay £250 for €200 at the airport]

This time ten years ago:
Defining my Sublime Aesthetic

This time 13 years ago:
Porth Ceiriad on the Llyn Peninsula

This time 14 years ago:
Jeziorki sunset, late July

This time 15 years ago:
Jeziorki sunset, after the storm

This time 18 years ago:
Rural suburbias: the ideal place to live?

Get On Down

"Expect the unexpected". I always taught the children that when they were small. This morning, having fed the cats and partaken of my coffee, I set off for a short pre-breakfast walk, accompanied by Scrapper. It had occurred to me that Pacyfik (Pacio) was missing from the early roll-call, but nothing unusual there – a late return from a long night out, I reckoned.

I got to the end of the drive, turned left, and heard a miaowing. "Who's that?" I thought... "It's most probably Pacio. I looked around, but couldn't see any movement in the undergrowth. Then it occurred to me – the sound is not coming from the depths of the next-door forest, but above me. I moved out onto the lane to scan the treetops. Scrapper joined me. We watched – we listened. We could hear miaowing high up in the branches. Finally, I caught sight of Pacyfik.

He was about ten metres (33 feet) off the ground, high up in the canopy of a tall pine tree (see photo, left. Click on it, then right-click the expanded image to witness it in bigger scale). Pacio was calling down to me, evidently in much distress. Having assessed the situation, I returned home with Scrapper for some breakfast and to consult ChatGPT. Which advised me to clear ground under the tree, and leave out some cat food to lure down the cat. In the worst case, it gave me the phone number for the local volunteer fire brigade and text (in Polish) to explain the situation to the call-handler (useful!).

After a filling my stomach with large bowl of porridge, I returned to the forest with lopper and secateurs and cleared a path from the lane to the base of the tree. Then I removed saplings and dead vegetation from around the area, so should Pacyfik fall, he will not become impaled on anything. Soon I was joined by Czester and Hipek, outside since after breakfast, who had been alerted by Pacyfik's miaowing.

And here's where it gets interesting. At some point, Czester, who had been watching all this keenly, and clearly understood the situation, began to scale the same tree, heading up towards his brother. He climbed about two thirds of the way up then stopped. Pacyfik, seeing this, made his way successfully to the next branch down, and then paused, unsure of what to do next. Czester then started to show Pacyfik how to reverse down the trunk, tail-first. Pacyfik was still scared and unwilling to make the next move. Once again Czester moved up, stopped, and then started to reverse. Once on a lower branch, he descended to ground level without difficulty. Below: ARF (Arboreal Rescue Feline) 1st Class Czester in action. Motto: Firmipes in altis – 'Surefooted at Altitude'. Pacyfik's stumpy tail, a genetic defect, makes it harder for him to balance than regular-tailed cats.

Pacyfik (who has a short, stumpy tail unlike Czester's normal one) finally latched on, and copying Czester's moves, proceeded cautiously along the smooth and branch-free section of the trunk until he got to a branch from another tree. 

He zigged down that, zagged down another, and soon he was about half a metre from my outstretched arms. I was standing short distance off the ground in the fork between two saplings. A bit of movement from either ends and I had Pacyfik safely in my grasp. As I cuddled him, much relieved, I could smell the pine-resin in his fur. And then a triumphant procession home, with Pacio in the company of Czester and Hipek.

A slap-up feast was laid on, rich in fishy goodness, during which Pacyfik somewhat disgraced himself by hissing and growling at Hipek, who had shown such steadfast solidarity with him while he was stuck up the tree. Each cat is as different as we humans are all different.

Soundtrack to the rescue operation: Get Down by Gene Chandler (played by MJDJ on last Friday's Yours Sinsouly show on West Wilts Radio)

This time last year:
Letters to an Imaginary Grandson (VII)

This time last two years ago:
Łódź for the weekend

This time three years ago:
Wes Anderson's Asteroid City

This time four years ago: 
Quarter of a century in Poland

This time seven years ago:
22 years on the 22nd

This time seven years ago:
A tale of two orchards

This time nine years ago:
My 20 years in Poland

This time ten years ago:
PiS, Brexit, Trump and cognitive bias

This time 13 years ago:
Portmeirion, revisited, again
[My last summer holiday - not had one since!]

This time 14 years ago:
Beach day, Llŷn Peninsula

This time 15 years ago:
Down with cars in city centres!

This time 16 years ago:
8am and it's 26C already

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. Having a short, stumpy tail doesn't help – a cat's tail is important for balance. Wiktor, who has a normal tail, 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 my 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, a line of cats awaiting their breakfast, like social-security claimants waiting for the doors of the DHSS office 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 for wear, staggering from side to side, with his hind legs sliding away from him..

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

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

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

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

Post-coffee bliss

I wake up before six, having gone to bed around half past nine. The sun's already been up for an hour an half by now! I check the kittens – all five and mum are doin' fine. As soon as the shutters are up, the cats, who have spent the night outside, besiege the house. Before they're let in, I fill seven bowls with a tin and half of cat food. Céleste takes priority – she's feeding for six; her kittens are putting on ten grams of body-mass a day. Once she's tucking in, I open the front door and in they all charge. Like a shot they're all plugged in, tails wagging. Scrapper, Czester, Wenus, Hipek – and Arcturus, who brings individual chunks of food up to his mouth with his paw rather than simply sticking his face into the bowl. No sign of Pacyfik yet.

With the cats engaged, it's time for coffee. Out with the tin. I fill the grinder to the top with 40g of beans (currently, a mix of Colombian and Brazilian, 100% Arabica*, light-to-medium roast, Lidl's Bellarom brand). The task is to convert about half of the beans in the grinder into 20g of ground coffee – enough for my one cup. [Below: the equipment, the beans, the process. I cook on bottled gas; filthy stuff. Had I known in 2018 that I'd be installing solar panels in 2022, I'd have bought an induction hob, not a gas cooker.]

As I turn the handle, ceramic gears grind the beans into medium-fine grains with the consistency of table salt. I count the turns. The counting can be done subconsciously, but it must be accurate. The 120 turns are a precise value. They equates to 20g of ground coffee in the grinder's lower chamber. 

Meanwhile, the kettle has boiled. Some water goes into my coffee cup to heat it up. Then I pour 150g of freshly boiled water into the tank of my Bialetti moka pot**, right up to the safety valve (no higher!). I carefully transfer the freshly ground coffee into the basket, levelling it off gently, though not tamping into down. Steam must be allowed to flow between the grains to extract as much of the coffee flavour as possible

The top gets screwed on to the base; I keep a small black hand-towel to insulate the tankful of boiled water as I turn it tight. Now onto the gas. The lid – crucially – is up, so I can watch the expressed fluid, darkest brown, start to rise up into the upper chamber. And aroma begins to fill the air... Once the liquid starts to pour freely, I raise the pot above the flame, surfing the heat. I'm after a steady flow of coffee – I want to avoid the angry sputtering of superheated steam; this scorches the coffee and gives the beverage a burnt taste, and generates the smell of burnt coffee. The instant that the steady flow of liquid starts to turn into hissing bubbles – that's it! Coffee's ready! 

The hot water has been thrown out of the cup, now hot enough to keep the coffee warm for several minutes longer than a cold one. Carefully, I pour the precious coffee into the hot cup. About 110g of beverage comes out. [There's 10g of water left in the tank, the solid puck in the basket now weighs 40g, so double the weight of the dry ground coffee that went in; the remaining water has turned to steam. The coffee grounds go into the compost.]

Now, to drink. This is a solemn ritual. The internet radio is on; ideal coffee background-listening at this time of the morning happens to be the BBC Shipping Forecast, that familiar litany of sea-areas, compass points and numbers. "Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger"..."Veering south west, four to six, occasionally moderate... Background volume. Individual words don't intrude on my stream of consciousness, rather they wash over it; the reassuring tone, those familiar terms – "North Foreland to Selsey Bill, rain at first, thundery later, good occasionally poor"– offer me timeless comfort.

I am a coffee conservative. Not for me capsules, being locked into one system with a finite choice. Nor instant coffee – an abomination, a last resort. Coffee is not something to be corporately commoditised. The act of grinding coffee beans fresh each morning takes time and effort; extracting a good brew from the Bialetti requires care and focus, but the result is deeply satisfying, as long as complacency isn't allowed to creep in. Zen in the Art of Coffee-making. Beans, grinder, pot, stove, cup must become one.

The coffee is sipped, delighted in. No gulping. It brings life and warmth and drives the morning, sweeping the cobwebs from the mind. The aftertaste lingers around my tastebuds. The whole house smells of coffee. All is good. The day is set fair.

* I noticed about a year ago that many coffee roasters stopped selling their beans as '100% certified Arabica' and replaced that wording with '100% certified coffee', having introduced unspecified amounts of Robusta into a blended product. I roundly reject such low deceit! I will only buy 100% Arabica. I don't care about brand, I care about the bean!

** My moka pot is advertised as being 'three cups'. That's, like, 40g a cup, dude? Ignore the one- and two-cup Bialettis, they make no sense.

This time last year:
Letters to an Imaginary Grandson (III)

This time five years ago:
Consciousness, memory and familiarity

This time seven years ago:
Classic Volgas, London and Warsaw

This time eight years ago:
Memory and Me

This time nine years ago:
Sticks, carrots and nudge - a proposal

This time 11 years ago:
London vs. Warsaw pt 2: the demographic aspects

This time 15 years ago:
Rail chaos hits Warsaw

This time 16 years ago:
Hurting and healing: a certain symmetry

This time 18 years ago:
I no longer recognise the land where I was born

This time 19 years ago:
A wet start to June