MagnifiCat

MagnifiCat 24th Jan

Vanum est vobis ante lucem surgere, surgite postquam sederitis, qui mandicatis panem doloris...

Translation : It's half-past five, you stupid woman, come back to bed...

Actually, before we go any further, it must be time to tell you about My Early Life. It's conventional. All important people write their autobiography, especially if they know that destiny has called them.

This isn't my CV, but we'd better get it out of the way, and I promise to be brief.
No mis lit. Ever. Nobody ever called me It. And if any idiot tried to call me Ugly, I'd just laugh, and I am, of course, a cat...

Mis Lit is an absolutely terrible idea. Miserable childhood ? Forget it.
If that's too much to ask, stop remembering.
Remembering sad and horrible things is the no-brain equivalent of making yourself sick. It hurts your brain.
This is absolutely true. Read New Scientist... Read that weird Lord Peter Wimsey, the one about the body in the bath.. The mad bad doctor treats the human wreckage of WWI, including shell-shocked Lord P, tells him about the actual brain damage caused by such trauma..

Took another few decades to get the imaging right, but they'd worked out the theory..
Sad and horrible experiences leave scars on your brain. Remembering is like picking a scab.
Clothed from head to foot in silky magnificent fur, remembering too much isn't the kind of thing I'd do. An old memory drifts past, like a bad smell, something dead, somewhere.. Not nice, better forgotten, please don't remind me.

Misery is a nice little earner for some, of course.
Open Yell (Not the last stop before Unst, just the phone book)
Your local will do...

If it helps, read the ads in a James Nesbit voiceover... Still with me ?
My Yell's open, and I'm counting. One hundred counsellors. Twenty-eight psychotherapists. Thirty-three hypnotherapists, couple of dozen mentors, Alexander, Pilates, five kinds of yoga, and for the really truly desperate, there's botox...

This,, meaning the catchment area of my YELL, is in a place where lifting thine eyes unto the hills is unavoidable. You look up, and there they are, purple-headed mountains, rivers running by, the boys in blue overhead...
How can anyone live here and need hypnotherapy ?
(Botox does in fact have its uses, especially for females of a certain age, but not where you might think)

Where was I ?

Mentors, life-coaches, every kind of shrink... None of these sad and wickedly expensive people can possibly make you happy.
It's Time for My Early Life, , mine, not Winston Churchill's, after which I will never, ever talk about my mother again.

Promise. (and please don't tell me about yours. Mine was lovely. That's all ye need to know, or ever know. I bet your mother was vile. Bound to be, if you want to tell the world about her. Children ( all species) shouldn't need to think about their mothers. Cliche but true. The children (all species) didn't ask to be born. And nobody ever fell pregnant.