Net deficit

It turns out there's more than one reason I need to make some nets in an unexpected hurry.

There is the fact that we need them for props, obviously; if you're going to set a play at sea, you do need nets to give the general idea, even if it's a pirate ship rather than a fishing vessel. So I was already thinking I'd better start making them as soon as I finish the script. But, as so often happens, events took a turn for the chaotic; and that means I had probably better make at least one net as soon as I possibly can.

See this here furry-purry? Looks cute, yes? I'm here to tell you it isn't. In fact, it really isn't. And this is me talking. Normally I'm a cat magnet; not only do cats generally cross the road to come and have a fuss from me (unless I'm in the scooter, which they seem to regard as a large vacuum cleaner), but I've even known one occasion where two of them were having a fight across the road, and the moment they saw me, they broke it off and both came running for cuddles. Because some things are more important than bashing seven bells out of your opponent, apparently (a heartwarming fact to know).

This here portly tortie, though... is different. She (I'm assuming it's a she, given the colouring; male tortoiseshell cats, like female ginger cats, do exist, but they aren't common) has some issues. In fact, she doesn't even just have issues. She has entire subscriptions.

Because the weather's been so hot, I've had to open the hall window whenever it's cooler outside than inside, which requires a lot of keeping an eye on the thermometer and the Wee Weather Widget. Normally, when you open a window, you accept that you're going to get insects; but this year, I've been getting a cat. This cat. And she was coming in quite regularly, but she was clearly very skittish and unfriendly; she'd normally bunk off the moment I approached, unless she was cornered, in which case she'd move very warily.

First of all I thought she must be a stray, possibly recently abandoned by her humans, given the size of her. So I decided I would give her a bowl of water and just a little bit of food - literally treat-sized portions, not too much. I didn't want her to get to rely on being fed here, otherwise she'd be stuck in the winter, but I did want her to understand that this place was safe and I was friendly. And, to my great astonishment, I managed to find top-notch nutritional quality vegan cat food; I had no idea that was even possible. But it is. They've found a vegan source of taurine. I'm impressed. (For what it's worth, it both looks and smells very much like the regular stuff, and the cat enjoyed it; so I reckon it's pretty much the feline equivalent of the Linda McCartney not-beef-burger.)

So she ate, but I soon found she wasn't eating that much (she didn't finish even the tiny portions I put out for her, though she did keep coming back for more at intervals) and she wasn't drinking anything at all, which suggests she probably gets cat milk at home. I had to revise my initial hypothesis. Perhaps she was just having trouble with her regular humans. It could well be that she lived in a household with rambunctious children; that would explain why she kept coming in here even though she clearly wasn't friendly. She just wanted a bit of peace and quiet. My flat has that in abundance.

We settled into a kind of routine. I'd hear little crunching noises from the hall, so I'd start singing so she'd know I was there (and not a threat); she'd carry on eating till she'd had enough, then off she'd go and I wouldn't see her at all. And I thought, fine. Keep this going for long enough and she'll come round to the fact that I'm not dangerous. By this time she'd already got herself stuck in the flat overnight a couple of times, and on both occasions she'd let me fuss her just a tiny bit when I found her; not much, and she was clearly uneasy about it, but, you know, little steps.

And then came the day I found her in my bed.

I had four cats when I lived in Sheffield, and I always had a rule that they didn't go in my bed. On it, yes, as long as they were supervised; they'd come and keep me company if I was ill. But not in it, because you don't know where they've been walking. So when I looked into my bedroom and noticed that the clothes which had been on the end of the bed were now on the floor, I thought... ah. Diplomacy is going to be required here.

I pulled back the duvet and said, "You know, you really shouldn't be here." Then I sat down next to her and started stroking her head gently, partly to reassure her, and partly as a preamble to coaxing her out of the bed. And she really did seem to be enjoying it for a few minutes; she purred very sweetly... until suddenly, without the slightest warning, she lashed out and clawed my arm. I've never had any cat deliberately scratch me before, so I was astonished... and also pretty cross.

I went and patched myself up in the bathroom, then got my rubber gloves (elbow-length, and industrial quality) from the kitchen. It soon became clear that even with these, it was unsafe to try moving Her Royal Hissyfit. She had another few swipes - didn't get me this time (I still have very good reflexes!), but she did make a hole in one of the gloves, which was annoying, but at least better than another hole in me. So I said, "Right, you've blown it now," and took the treats away. By the time I'd got them back in the bag and returned for the water, she had, very sensibly, gone. I mean, you know, I don't ask for much; in return for a nice welcome, safety, peace and quiet, and even a few nibbles, all I really needed her to do was refrain from actually injuring me. And she couldn't even manage that.

So I think I may have to make Stage Prop Net 1 as soon as I can (I'm not sure how many we're going to need in total) and find some way to fix it over the hall window, because, much as I like cats, I also like my skin in one piece. In any case, I'm on blood thinners, so if she's really determined to be vicious there is a chance she could put me in hospital, and I am so not up for that.

I have no idea how she must have been treated to make her like this; but I know cats, in general, so I suspect the answer is "pretty badly". And I'd like to help, but in the absence of the ability to offer her a permanent home (not to mention the absence of a pair of full-length motorbike gauntlets), I'm really not sure how I can. I think I may just have to accept that she's someone else's problem.

Now, how do I explain all that when I start claiming for a roll of twine almost six months before the production?