Making dates

Today, three years ago, I had to put my cat to sleep. So it is not surprising that I am not in a mood that makes me write anything funny and glib and frivolous, as I am wont to do. But while even three years is not long enough to obliterate the nightmare that those few days of my baby being ill and then having to die, signed off by my own hand, literally. I hate November 20, but cannot avoid it, so I now do my best to forget it. Which is not yet easy.

Dates are significant in many ways. For a close friend, a birthday is perhaps the most important day of the year. She does not demand a present, which would be easier to manage, but wants to be called and wished. Which means I cannot use my usual excuses about knowing when the big day is but not being able to see her to hand over the goodies, but will have to remember when it is and speak to her, or else face a prolonged spell of the sulks. Which occasional recriminatory swipes at me about my bad memory, especially for dates.

Another fairly close friend is more like me. He specialises in forgetting birthdays, especially mine. Two years in a row he missed the day, but has still not been forgiven, no matter how many huge boxes of chocolates arrive by courier from out of town, where he lives. The first year, I sent him a fairly rude message and he called, full of major self-recrimination and apologies. And then he forgot again, the next year. More recriminations and an even bigger box of chocolates followed. This year, he knew, he plugged it into his mobile phone and he remembered and called. But no chocolates came my way. I am still wondering what I preferred!

For me, a date is just a date, except for a couple that have intense feeling attached. Like when my cat died. And my mother left us. Which explains the mood today. And my total lack of inspiration and enthusiasm for this blog.