Quiet

I am somewhat of a recluse. Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you that I like to be alone with my thoughts. Sometimes even in the midst of a crowd. One of the main reasons I live in the middle of nowhere, Wales* is so that I don't have to do awkward things like mixing socially with people. I like the quiet.

But sometimes you can get too much of a good thing. Perhaps one of the worst things about last Tuesday was that, for several hours until the Horse Doctor got home from work, there was no-one I could talk to about Buddug's sad demise. No one to give me a hug. I tried phoning her, my parents, my brother, several other people, but they were all out or not answering. In the end me and the dachshund went for a walk, but that didn't really help. They say bottling up your emotions is unhealthy, but what's even worse is when you can't let them out because there's no-one there to see.

I'm coming to terms with a new quietness, too. Buddug** was a noisy cat, prone to yelling as she wandered around the house, or purring so loudly that you could hear her across the room with the stereo on. She would leap into my lap when I was least expecting it, or casually sink her claws into the back of my hand because she thought I wasn't paying her enough attention. In the new house, she was locked down in the basement at night, with access out the cat-flap to the garden so she could roam. Every morning, as soon as the alarm clicked on two storeys above, she'd start complaining to be let into the rest of the house. The routine hadn't been established long - we only moved in at the end of February - but I miss it already, and even the dachshund feeding song is a poor substitute.

* is that a tautology?
** it's pronounced 'bithig' if you've forgotten. It's Welsh for Victoria, or Boadicea depending on which dictionary you believe.