Ultimately, I am lazy. But so what?

My material needs are met; I have no material wants exceeding my needs. It would be nice to have a bit more cash in the bank, but only for an increased sense of security rather than because I have any desire to buy something expensive that I don't currently own. 

This is one of the great luxuries of getting older: discovering that there is little to covet.

People who know me also know that I'm not much of a reaching-out kinda guy. If someone contacts me and suggests meeting up, I'm usually delighted by the invitation and rarely say no. But I'm seldom the one who takes the first step. You may attribute this to laziness. Yet I live, as my primary-school teachers used to say, in my own little world. And I like it here! It is generally a little world of joy (especially when the sun shines upon it, as it's doing right now).

I don't have a constant need for human company. Solitude is a luxury. Human company is rather like spice in food: it brings things alive, but too much of it can overwhelm everything else. One or two social outings a week, online chats with family and friends, conversations with neighbours encountered on my walks – that's quite enough for me.

I'm happy with my own thoughts, but that doesn't mean I don't value other people's! Quite the opposite. An hour or two of intelligent conversation can provide material for several days' subsequent thinking. Someone throws out an idea, an observation, an unexpected connection, a brilliant insight, and off it goes to be further pondered over. New ideas gratefully received. Original thought is a deficit item in our modern world.

Much of what another person might consider as my laziness is actually the consequence of having thought through what would happen if I simply didn't do something. Why have I never been on an exotic holiday or cruise or trekked distant lands? Because I neither need to nor want to. Why don't I drive a big, expensive car? Ditto. And because of entropy; it would be expensive to insure and maintain, I would worry about it getting scratched and dented. Why don't I mow my lawn? Because every blade of grass on my land is a tiny oxygen factory, and during the growing season I let nature maximise leaf cover. I keep paths clear. Bushes get trimmed, branches lopped and hedges shaped in late winter, before the sap begins to rise. The rest can get on with being vegetation.

There's a distinction between laziness and refusal. Laziness is failing to make an effort towards something you value. Refusal is deciding that the objective itself isn't worth the effort of pursuing it.

Modern life tends to confuse the two. We're surrounded by injunctions to optimise ourselves: travel more, earn more, network more, exercise more, renovate more, consume more, experience more. Anyway, endless growth is bringing on climate change. We live in a hierarchical society in which many seek external validation; their focus is on their place in the pecking order. Failure to pursue commonly coveted material goals can be confused for lack of ambition. 

There is nothing inherently virtuous about expending energy. The question is what the energy is for.

Duty answers that question efficiently. When have children to feed, clothe and educate, and a mortgage to pay off, you work. When lucrative work appears, you take it. You pull in the cash because there are large bills waiting to swallow it. Duty staves off laziness because duty removes choice.

Now I can take things somewhat easier. There are still twelve cats to feed and four litter trays to keep clean. And domestic entropy continues to make its demands.

But there's another kind of not-doing which I find harder to justify. I continually have that nagging sense that I should be reading more, writing more, producing more – sharing insights, creating, devising, inventing. There are books sitting unread, ideas sitting unwritten, and half-formed thoughts that ought to be followed through to a conclusion. And I'm not doing enough of it. My notebooks should be filling up much faster than they are.

And this raises tougher question – is this genuinely laziness? Is this an ethical issue (not working sufficiently hard at fulfilling my potential as a human being)? I think this most certainly is.

But perhaps it's diminishing energy, an age-related thing. Perhaps I have never possessed quite as much drive as I imagine I ought to have possessed. Looking back, were my energy levels ever sufficient to achieve, excel, push relentlessly forward? I should have had a handful of books published by now. Or did duty disguise the limits of my natural drive? Surely my creative peak has already passed? A hard thing to admit to myself.

There is a crucial difference between not wanting something that other people tell you ought to want and failing to pursue something that you yourself believe to be intrinsically worthwhile.

I genuinely don't want the large car, the exotic holiday or a manic social whirl. Nothing sacrificed there. But if I genuinely want to read the book, write the essay, develop the idea – and nevertheless don't – then the accusation of laziness becomes harder to evade.

And yet even here there is another question: ultimately, how much should I care?

I am who I am. I arrived in the world with certain talents and without others, with a particular temperament and a particular allocation of energy. None of us chooses the hand we are dealt.

This is where the modern cult of agency becomes slightly absurd (an interesting article in The Economist this week about 'internal locus of control'). We are constantly told that we must shape our own destiny rather than allow circumstances or other people (or God!) to shape it for us. There's some truth in that. But balance is called for. At one extreme lies fatalism: qué será, será, or inshallah. Why bother? Everything has been preordained, determined by the stars above. At the other extreme: the fantasy of total personal agency – you, and you alone, are responsible for how your life ends up unfolding. Work hard enough, want hard enough, organise yourself efficiently enough, see your projects through to the end, and the universe eventually submits to your will.

Neither approach to life is right. Chance matters; birth matters; temperament, health, your family, friends and colleagues, history, geography, and yes, good fortune all matter. But choice matters too. Agency is not about choosing the hand but how to play with what you have. 

And perhaps contentment itself requires a similar balance. It is hugely liberating when you get to the point in life when you realise that you have enough. But there is also a danger that contentment becomes a philosophical name for inertia.

So I find myself somewhere between the two. I don't strive for more things or more travel. I don't particularly feel a need for more social activity. I don't particularly want a busier life. or more things.. 

But I do want more from my mind, and for my soul.

And that is worth striving for.

This time last year:
Getting in, and staying in, The Flow.

This time two years ago:
To ease the soul

This time three years ago:
Retrocausality and the Goneself

This time four years ago:
Many Machcins

This time seven years ago:
The Long Dark Half-Hour of the Consumerist Soul

This time eight years ago:

Early-September travel news

This time eight years ago:
Fields filling up with houses

This time 15 years ago:
Battle of Britain: Poland's contribution

This time 16 years ago:
Sewer under ul. Karczunkowska

Nihil a terra, solum ex arboribus

This is the motto for this year's vintage cider from my działka. I will not be using fallen apples, only those plucked off the tree. “Nothing from the ground, only from the tree.” Today I completed my first demijohn of cider, which will be joined by many more in the next week or so. Because of biennial bearing (apple trees come into fruit every other year if not sprayed and pruned), this will only be my third vintage of cider production here in Jakubowizna (or Jabłkowizna as it is at this time of year). 

The learning process is ongoing; new lessons learned with each successive vintage, augmented this year by tip from ChatGPT and Google Gemini. I learn from both that cider from my apple variety, Antonówka generally lacks tannins, and so adding some crab apples into the mix helps with flavour. I will make a batch to see if that works.

The apples are fully ripe. Many have already fallen to the ground – and there they will stay. Two years ago, I learned the difference between apples lying on the ground and the ones picked off the tree, and my 2024 vintage was a mixture of the two. The former have higher sugar content but are softer in consistency, and there is far more sediment, The latter are crisper, more tart, and produce less sludge, requiring less filtration.

Filtration has hitherto been the choke point in my cider-making. Removing the thick mousse (which, if eaten straight away, on its own or with Greek-style natural yogurt is delicious) takes more time than pretty much all other parts of the production process taken together.

By ignoring fallen apples and using only ones plucked from the tree, things are vastly speeded up. However, less sugar will mean a lower alcohol content, so I shall find how that affects taste. I want tart, I don't want sour.

Below: the first demijohn. The apple juice is still cloudy; the sediment settles; in a couple of days, the fermentation will begin, and carbon dioxide will start to bubble up through the water-trap pipe, which keeps oxygen from turning the juice into vinegar.

The cider will ferment in the demijohns until the autumn, and bottling will begin in early December. The bottles are recycled, having been used in 2022 and 2024; a new batch of bottle-tops will need to be bought.

This time last year:
Fading and resurging Chynów in monochrome and in colour

This time two years ago:
Imminent? I don't think so

This time three years ago:
Dawn tourism – the sights without the crowds

This time four years ago:
Bike ride to the past

This time six years ago:

Muscle memory

This time eight years ago:
The journey there, and the journey back again

This time nine years ago:
Sandomierz – another outstanding Polish town to see

This time 11 years ago:
Food hygiene and lies as Russian foreign policy tools

This time 12 years ago:
Asphalt for ul. Poloneza (to Krasnowolska at least)

This time 12 years ago:
A welcome splash of colour to a drab car park 

This time 14 years ago:
To Hel and back in 36 hours

This time 16 years ago:
Honing the Art of the Written Word

This time 17 years ago:
Of castles, dams and brass bands

The kittens at three months

Halfway through kittenhood, a quarter of the way to full feline adulthood. All is going well, rites of passage being observed by some but not all – Kwintesencja ('Kwincia') and Memphis ('Fisia') have already spent their first night outdoors after failing to come home by lights out, and Kwincia recently sported a wound on the left side of her neck, probably the result of fighting with one of her siblings. Or maybe uncles. Or maybe some external attacker. In any case, it has completely healed.

Below, from left: Wiktor, taking it easy, Kwincia and Mars, both alert, watching the breakfast bowls.

Dorian, with his cerebellar hypoplasia, is not growing as quickly as the others; he is a fussy eater. Whatever wet cat-food I leave out, he will scrape the ground with his paw next to the bowl, a sign that he treats the food on a par with faecal matter. He loves Greek-style yogurt, milk and dry cat-food (especially the premium fish-flavoured sort). Yesterday, I bought some freeze-dry chicken fillet strips (Céleste's favourite treat); I am feeding small portions of this to Dorian away from the others, allowing him to catch up weight-wise. 

Below: first foray into the forest next door for Wiktor and Mars.

Mars is a great little lad, full of energy and with a hearty appetite, though unlike Kwincia, his identical-twin sister, he has a short stumpy tail. If you look at the two of them closely side-by-side, you will notice that Kwincia has a more feminine face. Wiktor shows very mild signs of cerebellar hypoplasia, though with a regular tail he has much better balance than Dorian. Unlike stumpy-tailed Dorian, whose rear legs are splayed outward, Wiktor walks normally, although his head nods very slightly while at rest. And then there's Memphis, 'Fisia',  tabby with a white underside and a white 'tear streak' on the left side of her face. Below: all five together, licking the aluminium lid of a 1kg yogurt pot. Clockwise from bottom: Mars, Dorian, Wiktor, Kwincia and Fisia.

The kittens are spending more and more time outdoors and are discovering the extent of their range. They move as a group, with Dorian in among them (I do worry that one day he might get lost and be unable to find his way home on his own). I must remember not to take anything for granted and to be grateful for the joy that the kittens bring, as well as other items... dead birds and live mice (though the mice end up tortured to death and eaten whole). Below: Wiktor and the remains of a young starling.

Céleste is still managing to breastfeed her little ones almost four weeks after being sterilised! No longer all at the same time, and no longer for more than a few minutes. Like her mother, Wenusia, she has proved herself an ideal mother. Her fur is starting to grow back; I hope she will have regained her beauty by the time of the first snows. However, unlike Wenus, who toilet-trained her brood with military discipline, Céleste has proved remiss in this department. I continue to find kitten poo where it shouldn't be – on the floor beside the litter tray, on the floor nowhere near the litter tray, or in a cat-basket that hitherto had been the exclusive snoozing spot of one of the kittens' uncles. The floors, being tiled, are easy to clean. The cat-baskets are not. And tooth-marks on electrical cables worry me... grown-up cats don't do this.

Below: Wiktor and Mars in the kitten play-house I built several weeks ago out of old boxes.

Wenusia herself, grandmother and materfamilias, makes an appearance for breakfast, stays a short while then departs, popping in once or twice during the day for a meal. But most of the time, she remains outside. My neighbours (summer weekends only) often report that Wenus pops round there for ham and milk. 

The uncles, Czester, Scrapper, Pacyfik and Arcturus, spend most nights roaming the great outdoors; within two minutes of me pulling up the roller-blinds, there's a commotion on the windowsill and a breakfast queue has formed of the above-mentioned toms, plus their mum, plus ol' Mr. Heaps (Hipek), the elderly castrated male who's been with us now for over four months. 

Left: typical brunch buffet scene. All five kittens present, along with Czester the beloved ginger tom, Hipek, white with black patches and tail, and at the bottom of the picture, Arcturus (whom I've left uncastrated). Arcturus remains an even-tempered and undemanding fellow, who gets on with everyone.

The kittens never knew the house without Hipek, so accept him totally. Now Hipek is a good, calm, emotionally stable old cat. He gets on with everyone, and everyone gets on with him – except Pacyfik. For some reason, Pacio will hiss and growl and swipe at Hipek, often necessitating the younger cat's removal from the house. Pacio has learnt to tolerate the kittens (he'd hiss and growl at them too at first), but with Hipek relations remain bad. It makes me wonder whether intolerance of the outsider/newcomer is a genetic thing. One in five mammals is born a racist? Why does Scrapper often snooze beside Hipek and run together with him in the garden while Pacyfik gives Hipek a hard time? Cats from the same litter, same upbringing... different genes.

This time four years ago:
Strange twilight

This time five years ago:
Ageing and the Ego

This time six years ago:
First inklings of the end of summer

This time eight years ago:

Nikon's new mirrorless cameras - too big and heavy for me

This time 12 years ago:
Short, sharp diet proves I'm allergy-free

This time 13 years ago:
More photos from Radom Air Show

This time 14 years ago:
Twilight on ul. Karczunkowska 

This time 17 years ago:
First hints of autumn in the air

This time 18 years ago:
Slovakia – we were not impressed

This time 19 years ago:
Jeziorki – late August cultivation

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!

UPDATE: my daughter offered me some really useful advice: buy a sink strainer! (sitko do zlewu). I found a nice one, Polish-made by PrimPol AGD, enamelled stainless steel, in the local hardware store, for 6.90zł. ]

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.

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[for the saps who pay £250 for €200 at the airport]

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Jeziorki sunset, late July

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Jeziorki sunset, after the storm

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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 backwards with great caution 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)

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PiS, Brexit, Trump and cognitive bias

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Portmeirion, revisited, again
[My last summer holiday - not had one since!]

This time 14 years ago:
Beach day, Llŷn Peninsula

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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?

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Thoughts occasioned by the picking of fruit

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Cider – at last available in Poland

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Despondency on Puławska

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Stalking the stork

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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