Here is a short amusement story about our Norwegian Forest   Cat, Izaak – it is called “The naming of Izaak”:

He came as a sweet, innocent silver tabby kitten, adorable yet majestic, and after the initial cooing and cuddling, there came the inevitable question volunteered by me…”What the hell are we gonna call him?”

Of course there was silence, as no one really knew the answer. He was Mum’s kitten – and Mum decided.

“Magnus.” She pronounced shortly, beaming around at us and the kitten, who was at that point squirming in Zinnia’s arms.

“Maggie!” Dad had walked in.

This caused panic to spread across Mum’s face – you simply could not have a pedigree Norwegian Forest Cat respond to the name “Maggie”.

“Izaak.” Mum had then said quickly as dad had started to rub the cats head roughly murmuring “Maggie Maggie, Maggie, hello Mr. Maggie…”

Dad had looked disappointed, but Mum had started cooing again as she retrieved the cat from Zinnia and began to stroke the still struggling creature.

“Hello Izaak.” She had said, looking down at him fondly. “Do you like your name, hey? Izaak?”

“Izaak” simply stared into space with an expression of despair as he gave up hope of escaping.

“Say hello to “Izaak” Lily.” Mum had held up the poor beast, who was now attempting escape once more.

I had looked at the cat with amusement, then displeasure. “Izaak” was certainly not the name he would choose. After a pause, I gave him my own name.

“Hello Poky Choo.” I had said, surveying the kitten before stroking him under his little white chin, which produced an immediate reaction. A purr sounded as Mum sniffed in displeasure, but I was pleased. He certainly was a 'Poky Choo." - it was his natural name and still is.

Next up was Zinnia, who Mum beamed at, waiting for her to address the kitten with his pedigree name. Instead, her smile faded as Zinnia smiled at the cat, touched his paw and cooed;

"And how is Grrrrrravy?" She rolled her tongue as the cat stared away from her affectionate gaze with yellow eyes wide  with panic.

"Mr Pussykitten! How lovely to see you!" Rory, my elder brother, had strode in, standing back when he reached the kitten  surveying "Mr. Pussykitten." - his punt at 'Johnny English'.

Once again Mum's frown deepened, and it became a scowl as Dad came forward again to scratch the cat's ears.

"Nooo!He's Mr. Mob! Aren't ya, Mr. Mobbie Mob!"

"Mr. Mob" looked distinctly disinterested as he at last escaped Mum's grip and made for the hall.

And now came Rosa's contribution. My older sister plucked the kitten up whilst he was in mid-run.

"Awww, he's such a Little Guy! A Wee little man." She had put him down then and called after the retreating kitten. "Weeee Man! Weee Man!"

And as our new member of the family sprinted away, the rest of us followed oat a similar pace, calling, warbling and cooing his names as they went:

"Izaak! Izaak come here!"

"Mr. Mob, grrr, Mr Mob...."

"Poky Choo, oh Poky Choo, where ou* though Poky Choo?"

"Grrrrravy!"

"Mr. Pussykitten, come back!"

"WEEEE Man!"

And thus is the naming of Wee Man Izaak Poky Mob Grrravy Pussykitten.

*This is in memory of my beloved cat, who recently died at the young age of 15months. These are written partly to cherish memories for me.

The Crush and the Toffee – a true and most embarrassing instance:

At some point in his or her life, a person is going to have a crush – real life or celebrity. And mine was some guy from my drama club – obviously not a celebrity.

I won’t go into detail, as it would take hours, but I will admit I was kinda obsessed with him.

So there’s me one day, shopping in town with Zinnia and a friend, and we buy toffees, the really sticky ones that are like glue on your teeth - really difficult to get off. My smile was at that moment horrific, as when I pulled back my lips about half a toffee was plastered to my upper and lower teeth could be visible, looking like I had some kind of horrific gum to disease.

And then the crush walks past…and I make the mistake of automatically smiling. He doesn’t seem to notice however, for at that moment two large halves of a toffee are slipping down my throat and threatening to choke me,   and of course I begin to cough and splutter most alarmingly.

Just as he rushes forward and Zinnia and my friend are trying to help, the toffee pieces come up. One sails through the air onto the shirt of my crush, the other follows with less speed and sort of slips out of my mouth and…

Down the front of my top before firmly lodging itself in my bra.

Fortunately crush began to laugh and allowed Zinnia to remove the toffee stuck to his shirt carefully before walking off, and I was free to   despair without him present.

Here’s one tip – never buy toffees.

First of all, I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why it happened to me in the first place. The ninth year of my life certainly would have been more enjoyable if this didn’t happen. Actually, come to think of it, a lot of people would have had a more pleasant year if this didn’t happen. Specifically one semi-psychopathic misanthropist who usually goes by the name of Howard, who happens to be my best friend. You could say this whole thing was Howard’s fault. Some say the squirrel is the culprit. There are a few who believe it was my fault (who probably wish to remain anonymous). As you’ve probably guessed already, I disagree that it was my fault. But I’ll let you decide that for yourselves.

There are several things I could start this off with, but they would all sound like utter nonsense. So I’m going to go with the least nonsensical thing I can think of at the moment:

Howard’s perpetual fear of squirrels.

Now, I’m pretty sure he’s gotten over that. It has been several years since the incident, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s forgotten about it entirely. But at the time, he was simply, unexplainably terrified of them.

So here’s what happened. I believe it was our good friend Ollie’s tenth birthday party. He has this huge oak tree in his front yard that his dad hung several rope swings from when they moved there. One for Ollie, and one for each of his sisters. But there was one bigger swing, that they all kind of shared. They still have it to this day. The swing that started the whole thing.

Oh, all right. The swing isn’t a sentient being. It was the vessel in which the war began, though. And it was also, arguably, the key to our triumph. I say this mainly because it sounds cool, as I don’t remember every detail. That’s probably due to a blow to the head with a rake, from which I still get headaches. But like I said, I don’t remember it all.

Anyway, here’s the story.

It was around seven o’clock when all the kids went outside to play on the swings. We always did that after Ollie received his birthday gifts in the living room. Now, I say “all the kids” went out to play on the swings, but really it was just Ollie, Howard and I performing crazy suicidal stunts on the swings and the tree alike, while the other kids just stood there and watched in a mixture of horror and amazement. The three of us weren’t exactly your normal American kids.

As you might have guessed, Ollie and I were using Howard’s fear of squirrels as a way to make fun of him at the time. Yeah, I know, we were jerks. We were also nine years old and immature. I don’t know if that’s a valid excuse, but still.

So when I was perched on a branch of the big oak tree twenty feet from the ground, about to swing off, I saw a squirrel right next to me. Of course, I screamed, “SQUIRREL!”

This was a big mistake.

Now, the squirrel was right next to me. I was the slightest bit startled. Which lead to me slipping and falling off the tree. Luckily for me, I was able to hold onto the swing. Unluckily for Howard, when I yelled “squirrel”, he looked in the opposite direction. He was also standing directly in the path of my swing.

By the time the warning left my mouth, it was too late. Howard looked over just in time to see me barrel right into him. That was the last thing he saw for the next fifteen minutes, but that was the least of my worries. I had enough momentum behind me to carry me far past Howard, and directly into a certain fourteen-year-old girl whose name I have intentionally forgotten. I knocked her over backward, and quite possibly rid her of one of her teeth with the edge of the plastic seat of the swing. Now, being nine years old at the time, that was scary. Especially for the fact that that particular fourteen-year-old girl was rather large and bad tempered.

I was in for a long, long night.

TO BE CONTINUED....