Someone's nicked my shoes!

I left them on the bench in the women's changing rooms while I used the gym at Cockermouth Leisure Centre, and when I got back, they were gone. I was quite sure they'd just been tidied up by some over-consciencious member of staff, but it seems they really have been stolen. I'm appalled! They only cost £7 from a charity shop, but I'm very fond of them because they actually fit my wide feet and they're great for cycling and they're nice and bright and red and I can't afford to replace them with a new pair of the same quality.

<sob!>

When I joined the gym I asked where the lockers were, and I was told that although there are lockers for the swimming pool there are none for the gym (although they're planning to install them sometime) so in the meantime you just have to carry all your stuff around with you. I don't like putting my street shoes, which are sometimes a bit dirty, in the same bag with the rest of my clothes to cart around the gym, so I generally just leave them under the bench. They're not worth much so I never imagined anyone would take them. But last night the floor was sopping wet - I think it had just been washed - and because I didn't want my laces trailing on it and getting all wet I put the shoes on top of the bench instead of underneath, making them a lot more visible, I suppose.

And of course, because it was warm, the back door was open. Anyone could have slipped inside, had a quick look around the changing rooms, picked up my shoes and nipped out again without being noticed.

Of course I complained, and now they tell me that I'm quite welcome to use the swimmers' lockers! That wasn't what I was told when I joined. I am not happy.

I may just spend a bit of time wandering around the streets of Cockermouth looking at people's feet and showing this photo to everyone I meet: "Have you seen these shoes?"

BLACK CAT UPDATE

Little Snooky2, or whatever his name is, is becoming quite a frequent visitor. If I go to call our cats home, he turns up first, miaowing much louder than Aineko or Oscar do. Last night I opened the door and he was sitting there, quite companionably, with Ainkeo, and they both wanted to come inside. I felt really mean refusing him entrance. It's like your child comes home from school with a new chum, and you let your own kid in but turn the friend away.

But I know cats. I know if I let him in, he'll want to stay, and feel less and less inclined to go home. I also have no idea of the state of his health (although he seems quite bright-eyed and his coat, though needing some grooming seems shiny enough) or what sort of parasites he might be harbouring, ready to pounce on the 2 humans, 2 cats and 2 dogs who already live here.

VISITOR

A strange little cat has started visiting us. He's very friendly - comes straight over, miaowing as though he's an old friend of the family. As you've probably gathered, I'm pretty fond of cats, but I really can't go round encouraging unknown cats to hang about our house, particularly since he seems very keen to come inside.

For one thing, the cats who actually belong here, assisted by the dogs, would probably make a good attempt at dismantling this little chap, bit by bit, if he dared to pass the threshold. And more importantly, he must belong somewhere, and I'd hate to be responsible for him preferring our house to his own. It was just this sort of scenario that I was afraid of when Aineko went missing: she visits someone who invites her in, feeds her, and gradually takes her over.

Not knowing his real name I'm calling him Snooky2 in honour of the first cat in my life, Snooky, who looked exactly the same and lived in the flat downstairs when I was a toddler. He was mainly responsible for my life-long love of cats. Snooky used to come visiting (his owner was a friend and knew he visited us so it was OK) and charmed me forever. I actually saved Snooky's life when I was about 7 or 8. The big heavy downstairs door to our stair had very strange hinges, which meant that the back of the door swung away from the wall when it was open, and swung back when it was closed. I can still remember seeing Snooky walking through the gap behind the door as someone went outside, not realising he was behind them, and the door starting to close on him. It would certainly have crushed him. I charged down the stair, grabbed the door and stopped it closing at the very last minute.

Postscript
Shortly after taking the photo above, Oscar came home with one eye half shut. The obvious conclusion to draw would be a fight between him and Snooky2, but I never saw or heard anything so I'll reserve judgement for now.

Postscript 2
Something has bitten my leg. I'm not aware of our cats or dogs having fleas at the moment, but Snooky2 was rubbing against my leg with great gusto. Hmm...

Fringed

Since I had to be in Edinburgh anyway on the first weekend of August, I thought I'd see which Fringe music shows had already got started. Not many, if you look through the enormous programme. I sat in Hilary's kitchen thumbing through it: the first thing we fancied had been cancelled; the next couple were starting in about 10 minutes, leaving us no time to get there. We finally settled on something called Café Cadenza, described thus: "Eclectic wind virtuoso John Sampson and songwriting singer-guitarist Stewart Hanratty produce an hour of classy music, ranging from Stewart's contemporary tales to John's recorder, crumhorn and trumpet, creating a warm, forget-the-word atmosphere."

Well. Mention recorders and crumhorns and I'm yours. Hilary was inclined to agree, so we chucked the Fringe programme in the back of the car and set off. Halfway there, I said to Hilary, " It was at that place in Nicholson Street, wasn't it?" And Hilary replied, with absolute conviction, "No, no, that was the one we couldn't get to - this one's at the Carlton Hotel." "Are you sure?" said I, not at all sure myself now. "Positive," said Hilary. How could I argue with that?

The Carlton Hotel is not the sort of place you can get parked outside, so we parked away back up Nicholson Street and walked very fast down to the North Bridge, as the show would be starting quite shortly. Like most venues during the festival, the Carlton was festooned with a variety of Fringe posters. Hilary started following some people who looked like musicians, in through the front door of the hotel, through the lobby and down a back staircase. Like a sheep, I followed her, feeling the whole thing was somehow wrong. Eventually one of the musicians turned round and explained that although this was indeed the way to the venue, if we followed any further we'd end up on the stage with them, and we ought to go in through the other door.

Back up the stairs we trotted, somewhat faster than before, then out through the main door and back in through the side door, where a girl at a desk claimed she'd never heard of Café Cadenza. I borrowed her copy of the Fringe Programme (for ours was still lurking several blocks away in the back of my car) and discovered that, astonishingly, Hilary had been wrong, and the show was indeed in the venue, named for the duration, as, 'The Zoo, Southside,' back up the road in Nicholson Street.

We nearly ran this time, back up across the High Street, up Nicholson Street, past where I'd parked the car, and about the same distance in the opposite direction until we reached the old church where the show was about to start any moment.

"After all this," I thought, "it had better be bloody good."

We found a seat in a little room set up with 'cabaret seating' as they call it in the Kirkgate - tables, chairs and candles, with a few fairy lights draped around a red velvet curtain to provide a stage.

A man with a guitar appeared, propped up several strange paintings on a chair, and started to sing. I still have no idea what he was singing about as his enunciation wasn't too good, but the songs seemed to be connected in some way with the paintings, which we deduced he had probably created himself. I'm sure this would have been much more enjoyable had we been issued with sheets containing the lyrics - the songs were probably very funny, or sad, or thought-provoking, or profound, or just damn good poetry, but we'll never know.

Had it not been for the promise of recorders and crumhorns I'd have got up and left. I could think of several things I'd rather be doing in Edinburgh on a Saturday night. Suddenly, when I just thought I couldn't take any more, a big man with an interesting beard burst on to the scene playing a post horn with great enthusiasm, and from this point on the whole show livened up.

John Sampson (for it was he) is a skilled performer on a variety of wind instruments, which he plays with aplomb. He's also very funny, and one of those people with the ability to get a laugh with just the odd raised eyebrow. Stewart Hanratty, the guitarist, slipped easily into a role much better suited to him, that of accompanist, and between them they entertained us delightfully for three quarters of an hour.

Shame about those first 15 minutes, really.

If Mr Hanratty really must sing his songs, the least he could do would be to intersperse them throughout the show, in between John Sampson's instrumental pieces, though quite honestly, the whole thing would have been better without the songs at all. Sorry, Stewart.