Car today, gone tomorrow? 

I hate paperwork faff.

I finally have to sell my beloved car and all I can think of is the hassle. There’s loads of dings and scratches where I’ve been less than careful, there’s some corrosion, squeaky brakes, and two of the locks don’t work. It’s going to take a lot of hard graft to make this appealing to prospective buyers. 

I was gutted when I got my first bad dent. It happened three weeks after I passed my test when a knob sped into a junction I was approaching the exit of. To avoid a head on collision, and risk hurting my heavily pregnant friend in the passenger seat, I pulled left and went into a parked car. The knob and the parked car were undamaged but I got a nice big crease down the side. I was so mad, mainly at myself. And then I stopped caring and let my car get into whatever state it would.

I’m lucky that I will still be mobile. My Parents are upgrading to get a better car for Mum’s wheelchair, so I’ve got their old one, which is still newer/better than mine.

This sounds ridiculous, but I struggled for ages with the thought of giving up my car. It still runs really well and is a pleasure to drive, so many storage solutions too, and I’m really attached to it. The ‘new’ car seems so sterile and unfamiliar in comparison. I would be a fool not to take it, but I actually got upset thinking about having to sell mine.

My first car. My baby. I’m going to miss it so much until the next one feels more like my own. The pressure I put on myself not to turn it into a shit tip will undoubtedly mean it will become one! It is in my name now but I’m not insured yet. I get anxious over form filling, and major change. I was happily willing to run mine into the ground, but it’s becoming way too uneconomical for me to maintain. Eventually, replacement parts would cost more than what the car is worth. So rationally, I know this is the best decision, but emotionally I’m still torn.

There are much worse things in the world to be upset about, but when you get emotionally attached to objects, it feels like a bigger deal than it looks to everyone else. I will have to force myself to be grateful that I can even drive, and have use of a car. Just not looking forward to the selling process.

Mr. Ponytail is being so helpful and fixing things on my behalf. I shall thank him by putting him on my new insurance. We can share the responsibility of long drives, yay! 

This is a really crap post compared to my others, but I’m only using it to blurt what I struggle to express verbally. That I’m dreading paperwork and really going to miss my car. Could have just written that one sentence and be done really. That’s not what us wafflers do though. Hopefully my next post will include more riveting content… 

A Pile of Craft

Despite managing to be frugal most of the time, (see previous post), I do have the occasional splurge on things that I think matter at the time. Recently I spent an arse-clenchingly obscene amount of money on handmade pottery, and then at a vegan festival I also went a bit wild with odd foods. Soy jerky turned out to be rather nice actually, but I could still never give up eggs and cheese. 

So, logging into my bank account has been extremely painful the last few days. I have literally £60.55 to my name. I’m not including my savings jars in this total because I’m not allowed to touch them until they’re full, and it will most likely be spent trying to keep my rust bucket on the road. 

I have deduced that unless a long lost relative croaks and leaves me a massive inheritance, I’m actually going to have to do something about this problem myself. I am so fortunate that my parents don’t charge me any rent for staying in their attic, and I’m usually kept fairly well fed, warm, and entertained. So in that respect I’m far better off than a large chunk of the global population and shouldn’t complain, but this situation was meant to be temporary and being broke has officially lost its hippy charm. 

I am still, (and probably forever will be), in the process of sorting my shit out, so the idea of a ‘regular’ job still terrifies me. I can’t imagine myself in an office environment again, the anxiety just wasn’t worth the money. A couple of years ago, myself and a friend who suffers from a chronic illness, looked into sex chat line work. Only half as a laugh. I couldn’t give out my parents’ landline number, so that ruled me out of the most profitable medium. I also think my accent could be off-putting, and I can’t do a sexy voice to save my life. Texting was the next option. The pay was abysmal, and though I consider myself a wordy sort of person, I would still definitely have trouble coming up with creative responses all day when I’d rather be on Netflix. It’s just not for me.

This means that I’m going to have to start getting crafty again, and actually sell some this time around. Or flog all of my possessions and live out of the boot of my car. Option one is looking more attractive. But I’ve not completely ruled out eBay if I can get someone to help me figure out how it works. I can buy things fine, but selling is an alien concept, I’ve always just hauled my stuff to charity so it’s out of my face before I can change my mind and claw it back.

Crafts seem like a fantastic idea when you have a million ideas floating about, which I do. But I have this annoying habit of starting many projects and not quite getting round to finishing them. When I eventually do, I have so little confidence in my ability that I just end up stashing the items away or giving them as presents, because A) I’m generous as fuck, and B) I just can’t get my head around the idea of anyone being willing to pay me real money to own something I made, from an idea I pulled out of my arse. 

I have seen some of the tripe that people are selling on Facebook. And yet someone is buying that stuff. I whinge (internally) that I could do better quality things, but the fact is that I’m not even trying, and they have a basic but somehow popular business. I worry that putting myself out there will generate a similar response from other crafters. “She’s just copying the trend/on the bandwagon/totally shit.”

As I write this, I’m mentally critiquing my business when it doesn’t even exist. The idea is so daunting. How would I stay organised to take orders and keep up with postage? I’d have to actually talk to people! The ideal scenario for me would be to just make whatever I fancy making, whenever I have the motivation, and just sell on an as and when basis. This is not going to drastically improve my current situation, but it could help my morale.

I think It’s time to conclude this post and work on doing something productive with my life. After extensively googling get rich quick schemes and daydreaming about financial freedom.

My Frugality, (“my, my frugaaaliiityyyyy”)

I can’t say ‘My Frugality’ without thinking of the tune to ‘High Fidelity’ from Fame, hence the title of this post. I am well known amongst my friends and family for being extremely frugal (read: cheapskate) most of the time, so when I need to spend big, I can afford long lasting quality items. Or have the occasional splurge on frivolous things because I made some basic reductions to my general lifestyle. Here is a list of some of those things. I may not recommend them all, but it’s what I do!

  • Have a profile on a friend’s Netflix multi-user account, a bit cheeky, but the only con is they can see what you’ve been watching! No more documentaries about weird sex practices from around the world!
  • PAYG phone. Rarely top up and use WiFi wherever possible
  • Only download free apps and books. Mostly the cheesiest, crappiest romantic e-novels. Good for light entertainment but you don’t learn much. Except for 500 different ways of saying ‘vagina’
  • Save all leftover change in various tins to deposit into bank account
  • Bulk buy staple products. Only generic stuff like pasta and porridge. I can totally taste inferiority when I go for certain unbranded foods
  • Find deals on eBay. Recently learned about taking advantage of misspelled items. Not sure why it works, maybe because less people will find them so the prices are rock bottom
  • Buy gifts and cards in sales. January sales are especially good for buying Christmas presents for people who you know you won’t get to see til after Christmas. You save postage then also
  • Hand-me-down clothes from sister and cousin, or receive as gifts. Or trawl charity shops to find the one decent top amongst the millions of granny ones. Time consuming, but worth it if you want something basic or possibly even to use as part of a fancy dress outfit
  • Make gifts wherever possible/appropriate. I’m crap at baking, but everyone likes it when you’ve tried
  • Upcyling (must do more of this – search charity shops for finds with good potential)
  • Save wax from used candles to melt into new candles
  • Soaps – do that last sliver collecting thing my dad does
  • Collect freebies from hotels. Soaps/drink sachets etc. Good for travelling or if I’ve run out. Currently have a huge stockpile
  • Use pea sized blob of toothpaste/handwash and slightly less detergent than stated
  • Use laundry EcoEgg. A bit of initial cost at nearly £18, but you get about 720 washes out of it and then only need to buy refill balls. Pennies per wash!
  • Only drive when necessary. For me this is every weekend to my partner’s house, as I can do most things I need to from home during the week. I also have my dad on my insurance so benefit from his 25+ years no claims bonus!
  • Go on hikes for fun/exercise/appreciating nature
  • Keep good gift bags for re-use
  • Cut bits of greetings cards to recycle as new decorations on homemade cards
  • If people ask what I want for Christmas/birthday, suggest toiletries e.g. shower gel/bubble bath, (that I can stockpile and actually use)
  • Don’t shave my legs that often. Find a man who doesn’t care if you’re part gorilla, and cling onto that motherfucker!
  • I haven’t had a haircut in over a year. It’s well overdue a trim but this is mostly out of sheer laziness than conscious frugality
  • Learn a new language. I recommend the Duolingo app, it’s free and keeps you motivated by earning points aka ‘Lingots’ for topics learned. You can only ‘spend’ these with Duolingo, and purchase options are limited, but it’s a fun way to get competitive with yourself
  • Mr Ponytail works in the public transport industry, so I’m entitled to a free travel pass, which I will take advantage of when I can be bothered to spend money on a new passport sized photo!
  • Use WordPress to blog. Free hosting and good therapeutic activity
  • Learn DIY. There’s a YouTube tutorial for practically everything these days
  • Live with parents. Super extreme, and not recommended for most 30 year olds, but at least I don’t have to worry about a mortgage. My parents paid theirs off years ago when they got an unexpected windfall, which was most appreciated during lean financial times.


I will add more to this list I am sure. 

It’s been a while…

I got an email from WordPress to say happy anniversary, and it jolted me into actually remembering that I have a blog! I’m not sure where to start with this post because a gazillion things have happened since I started blogging here.

So in a nutshell, from Approx. August 2015:

  • Reinstated my dating site account
  • Went to close it in frustration a few weeks later, but found an unusually thoughtful and articulate email from a guy with a ponytail
  • Responded to ponytail guy
  • Met 2 weeks later. Second date was on top of a cliff, so it bodes well for us both that it went OK…
  • He was my date to my sister’s wedding, and there I found out his dancing was just as terrible as mine. This was the first time I got rotten drunk in front of him too, merely a month after meeting. So I credit him for not running for the hills when I demanded he “kiss my sicky mouth!”
  • He took me on a trip for my 30th, we visited Christmas markets and asked the fudge stall lady what her favourite was. Her reply, “Well, when your life smells of fudge, the novelty does wear off a bit…”
  • My actual birthday was spent visiting my mother in hospital. She was in for a whole month so that time was a bit of a blur, but Mr Ponytail stayed with me throughout
  • He encouraged me to sign up to a Counselling course, which I’d been dithering about joining for ages. Having experienced the ‘Black Hole’, I wondered if I could learn something about myself as well as potentially help others to recognise their own feelings. It was the first time in as long as I could remember that I actually enjoyed academic learning, and did my homework on time. For several reasons, the course couldn’t run the next level, but I’m still fascinated by the subject
  • Lots of stuff followed, and finally Mum came home
  • Skipping a few months because it would just be loads of guff about me and Mr Ponytail’s honeymoon period
  • Brexit. I could write a write all day about this, and may even do a separate post on it, but it gets me really angry. I voted ‘Remain’.
  • Going to Germany with Mr Ponytail soon, who now also has a beard and looks a bit like a lion in the morning. Looking forward to this immensely, but now our Euros are going to cost a fucking fortune. I’m semi-considering claiming political asylum and not returning to the UK! Deutschland, ja!
  • Today… distracting myself from brewing packing rage by writing this post
  • Still living in my parents’ attic

More in depth musings will hopefully follow, as the tone of this blog changes from ‘single don’t give a fuck’ girl, to ‘committed to a man with weird hair and gives slightly more of a fuck’ woman. Tschüss for now.

Refugee Crisis. Heartless people are infuriating!

Well, I’ve been quite a busy bee the past month, prepping for my sister’s hen do amongst other things, but am finally compelled enough to write again.

We are facing the biggest humanitarian crisis since the Second World War, and reading the callous comments of some people regarding the refugee situation has really angered me. I want to address a few of those points.

1. We can’t afford to let them into the UK

Yet we can afford to spend millions on renewing our nuclear weapons?! I call bullshit.

2. Britain is too full already

Well, due to the government’s previous lax policies on immigration, and as a consequence buggering about trying to catch people who enter illegally, this naturally makes the population suspicious of any economic migrants. Let’s not forget the distinction here. Refugees are not here specifically to find work, they’re trying to not get killed! There are many thousands of empty homes that could be used to accommodate desperate families.

3. We need to look after our own first. We have homeless veterans on the streets. Are you really prepared to take a refugee into your own home? 

Actually, if any made it as far as my town, yes I would. This argument is the most laughable. I would like to ask the people who state this, how much have THEY done to offer a bed to homeless ex military personnel? Practise what you preach!

4. We don’t know who we’re letting in, they could be terrorists

While it would be virtually impossible to conduct a full background check on every person entering the UK in an en masse situation, I am inclined to believe that the vast majority are just ordinary people trying to escape an unimaginably shit situation. Put yourselves in their shoes. No matter what your religious or political views, you would do anything you could to get your family the fuck out of there.

5. They will steal our jobs

Whose jobs exactly? Genuine migrants contribute a vast amount to our economy and bring so many skill sets. If anything, they work harder than anyone to prove that they are not ‘benefits scroungers’. In my area we are not as ethnically diverse as some, yet we have many Indian dentists, Filipino nurses, Nigerian doctors and Polish engineers, who all provide vital contributions to our community. Not to mention the Chinese and Bangladeshi families who operate some of our finest eating establishments!

Let’s make the distinction again. Refugees are NOT economic migrants. If they had the choice they would rather be in their own homes. I do not believe anyone would risk theirs and their childrens’ lives just for the prospect of claiming the dole. When their countries are peaceful again, they may wish to return, but I personally would not begrudge them if they didn’t. Amongst the refugees there are many skilled individuals. More so than myself. Why shouldn’t they deserve to live wherever they choose to give themselves a better life?

There are photos of dead children washed up on beaches. Do people really think they gave a fuck about the economic status of the country they were trying to enter?! They’re just innocents caught up in a horrible mess that should never have happened.

What angers me more than ignorance, is the fact that countries like ours have no qualms about going into these countries all guns blazing to ‘help them sort out their problems’, but when the devastating consequences of those actions land on our own doorstep, our lead politicians couldn’t seem to give an all singing and dancing fuck.

We welcomed refugees from Kosovo in the 90s, and the country did not cease to function. Have some compassion on a basic human level.

Why I think keeping bits of useless tat is okay

Clutter. Everyone has it. Even people with OCD. Though they may organise things in parallel lines and keep a place spotless, they still have all that emotional clutter. I’m going to concentrate on talking about actual clutter. When I graduated uni in 2009, I brought back many boxes of junk to add to the junk I already had, some of which still hasn’t been unpacked!

I get sentimentally attached to the most seemingly ridiculous and unimportant things. My sister says if it doesn’t have a purpose or bring joy to your life, get rid of it. Sometimes though, it’s not the item which brings me joy, but the memory attached to it.

I kept the disembodied plastic arm of a figurine that I found on some train station steps, because it reminds me of coming home with awesome friends after one of the best gigs I’ve ever been to. I kept a little broken Chinese charm with a bell in it because it was given to me as a thank you for rescuing a stray kitten. I kept a disgusting, grubby, rubber chicken keyring because I had it with me when I backpacked and interrailed across Europe.

I can force myself to throw away shoes which have been worn to the death, or threadbare knickers which have even gone way beyond ‘last day before laundry’ suitability status. I can even donate to charity some of the masses of nondescript t-shirts I have accumulated over the years. It’s a painful process, but still possible. However, if there is a good memory featuring one of the nondescript t-shirts, I just can’t bring myself to do it.

It’s almost like I feel sorry for the item, that it above all others has been chosen for the chop. It’s physically hard for me to justify what makes this ticket stub more worthy of being kept than that one. When I was a kid I had a tub of pencil shavings, but have since become a tad more selective about the crap that I keep.

In our throwaway culture, why not keep a little scrap of paper with a rubbish doodle on it? Someday, my descendants may find that scrap and make a treasure of it.

When my maternal grandparent’s home was being sold, we had a jolly good nosey through all their things and the bits of stuff that they had left behind, and it brought me infinite joy. A box of anti-diarrhea tablets with a note attached telling my grandfather to enjoy his trip to somewhere in the South Pacific I think. A round of caps for a 1960s toy gun. Doodles and caricatures created by my uncle. Odd little trinkets from around the world.

If my future possible grandchildren find my little plastic arm, the broken bell, or the grubby rubber chicken keyring, I hope to be around to tell them what makes these bits of tat special to me.

I am working on my emotional clutter, but as far as I’m concerned, I can live with the actual clutter if it means I get a decent story out of it. In fact, that’s what I like about family stories passed down through the generations. I’m not bothered about birth/marriage/death dates, I’m more fascinated with the anecdotes from their everyday lives. If there is a bit of tangible evidence to back this up, even if it’s as insignificant as a natty old sweet wrapper, all the better.

I just don’t know what to do (with myself)

Today, my Dad asked me what I intend to do with my life. He didn’t utter those exact words, but during a general conversation the meaning was most definitely implied. I stress that he was not malicious in his statement, merely curious.

I have no idea how things will play out. If I knew what I wanted to do with myself then I wouldn’t be living in the attic of my parents’ house, (yes, I’m finally in my big girl’s bed!) I am totally in awe of people who have a ‘plan’, but also feel sad for them when they don’t appear to allow for life’s little flexible moments.

There are actually a ton of things I would love accomplish. Write a novel and/or a children’s book; Get back into crafting and experiment with all sorts of techniques; Travel more, possibly working abroad; Volunteer at a cat shelter. I’m actually making enquiries about the last one, but the others demand a certain level of motivation that I lost during my personal black hole, and have not yet quite regained.

Currently, I call it a success if I manage to organise myself enough to get dressed and leave the house. The road to recovery is long, sometimes boring in fact, and being reminded of how my life has stalled can be quite disheartening, compared to others my age getting mortgages and starting families etc.

Then I have to remind myself that every one of my peers and friends are on the face of their own personal Everest. Absolutely everyone. They’re all having a good time according to Facebook, but when we confide in each other the cracks are readily on show.

Struggles to get their child’s autism recognised in school; Problems with mother-in-laws/exes/current partners; The loss of a parent; Overstretched at work; A new Mum struggling with loneliness; The constant issue of only appearing to attract knobheads. The list goes on and on.

Which leads me to a lovely old proverb, probably written by some anonymous monk from the middle ages, that I read once and it really resonated with me:

Blessed are the cracked, for they let the light in.

‘The Godmother’

Disclaimer: This post contains religious/spiritual viewpoints of the author which are in no way meant to be taken offensively, as they are an accurate representation of her own experiences. Also, there’ll probably be some swearing.

I currently have one Godson, and am about to gain another in about a week. I do not believe in organised religion or God, or at least not the conventional idea of God, a beardy old wise bloke perched on a cloud judging us all. Some people will therefore wonder why I have apparently become a hypocrite and decided to take a sacred oath in His house, to be responsible for helping to bring a child up into faith.

My take is, the baby’s parents have somehow deemed me to be a sensible and respectable member of society and role model to their offspring, so to turn down the request, I would effectively be telling them that their high esteem of me is grossly misplaced. Of course you can be a great role model without being a Godparent, but in all honesty I never thought I’d ever be asked so I suppose I was as much shocked into acceptance as I was thrilled that the parents put their trust in me.

Yes I do feel like a hypocrite in Church, and no I will not impose religious discussion on children unless they have questions for me, with which I am prepared to keep an open mind. Children question everything, so if they ask me if there is a God, I will be truthful and say I haven’t got a fucking clue. (Minus the ‘fucking’, I expect.)

I was raised in a Methodist Church, and was made to go to Sunday School until I was about twelve, when I reached the point of questioning the hell out of everything to the chagrin of all adults around me. Especially the Sunday School leaders. When I asked one of them, “How do you know that God exists?”, I was quite looking forward to an intelligent and well considered discussion about it, but tired of my inquisitiveness, they irritably replied, “He just does.”

Well, that did it for me. Refusing to engage just made it more clear to me that I wasn’t there to be valued for my own opinions, but to be told what I should believe, and accept that this is the way things most definitely are. I absolutely hate being forced into things, whether it be having to watch an entire episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, wash dishes, or become indoctrinated.

From that point on, I decided that I didn’t need God to be a good person, and learned that you can be spiritual without being religious, though I respect those who do choose that path, as long as they’re not hurting anyone. I know I am kind, considerate of others, and have super high bullshit tolerance levels. I would rather spend a glorious Sunday morning taking a walk by the river and truly appreciating all of nature’s creations, than be sat in a drafty old building getting a numb backside, being reminded that I should appreciate all of nature.

Being asked to be a Godparent is an honour, and I know some will disagree with my decision to take the role without the faith, but as much as I love a good religious debate, I also love all my friend’s children equally and would never give any of them more favourable treatment than the others just because of the title. My Mum never knew her Godmother, she lived in the Far East, and mine barely acknowledges me if I pass her in the street. I also believe what’s more important to children is presence, not presents.

So, to C and J, I promise I will try my best to be a positive influence in yours and your siblings’ lives, (as well as all the other little people I know.) I will remember your birthdays, answer any non-awkward questions you have, and make sure to always be there for you and respect you as individuals, making your feelings validated. I will always be your loving Auntie Indie. You will get my crap advice about dating girls (or boys!) if you ask for it, and I won’t tell your parents if I see you out drunk when you’re eighteen. I do take bribes.

5 ways to make people think you’ve got your shit together

1. Get a whiteboard

Then make lots of lists on it. It doesn’t matter if the lists are relevant to your life in any way, as long as it looks like you have a ton of shit to do and you are sensible enough to write down what that is. I’ve had the same list for about six months, barely adding or removing an item. “Buy replacement water filters” is staying for life.

2. Wear a watch

I don’t actually wear a watch, which is probably why my shit is not together. I always notice that people who wear watches look way more professional and organised than the people who check their phone every five minutes. Even if they’re just wandering around the pudding aisle in the supermarket, they give the impression that any moment now, with a quick flick of their wrist, they may have to abandon their pudding perusal to attend something more important. (What’s more important than choosing a pudding?!)

3. Put stuff in jars

You still pour out your pasta from its original packaging? You dirty heathen! Get some posh jars and put that shit on display. Everyone should know that you appear to know the difference between tortiglioni and penne rigate, because you’re an adult and pasta is not just a vehicle for delicious sauces, it’s an art form in its own right.

4. Have real books

It doesn’t really matter how many you have or even if you’ve ever read them, as long as they look fairly enlightening or informative. I waste a lot of my time reading cheesy romantic e-novels with hilarious descriptions of cocks, but I still keep a copy of Anna Karenina on view in case someone intelligent comes into the house, and hope that they notice but don’t ask me about it.

5. Exercise (or give the appearance of it)

The last time I went out of the house, I got exhausted walking three steps to my car. To be fair, it was hot out and I was wearing a dressing gown. If you don’t have time for a work out because you’re too busy sorting fancy pasta into jars, then leave a dumbbell on the coffee table like I do. It’s also a handy doorstop. Or, you know, actually exercise. If your body is fit, you don’t have to do any of that other stuff. Healthy people are naturally assumed to have their entire shit together.

The beginning of the end?

29 is still relatively young these days. If I was living in the Regency period I’d be called a spinster, or would have been married off already to some merchant with whom my father wanted to expand his business, with babies constantly hanging off my tits. It was a simpler time…

In 2015, I have the vote, my freedom, my driving licence, the NHS, access to contraception, and most importantly, a family who love and support me no matter what choices I make.

With freedom comes a whole new set of problems and responsibilities. If I majorly fuck up, there is no-one to blame but myself, and blaming yourself for everything wrong in your life is a huge burden to carry. I did that for way too long before realising that perfection is an illusion. “Life doesn’t come in neat little boxes”, as my mother says.

When I was a lot younger, I was reluctant to grow up. I still am in a way, but there are some signs that I can’t ignore that indicate it has happened. For example, the other week I had a dream that I was given a cheque for £700. The first thing dream me wanted to do was put it in a bank account to save for household appliances. You are definitely knocking on a bit when you act responsibly in your dreams.

I now also get ridiculously excited over soft furnishings and cleaning products. I have a huge cache of air fresheners and scented candles. Since when did I become so concerned with the quality and fragrance of my air?

Today, I am genuinely delighted to be having a new bedroom carpet fitted, because it marks the end of a year of being holed up in the tiny boxroom at my parents’ house. I’ll still be with my parents of course, but being up in the attic will give me some semblance of independent living.

We ordered the the bedroom set last Summer, thinking it was a small job, but major renovations and a new roof later, it’s finally nearly ready to go in. The people holding it at the warehouse probably thought I’d died.

Basically, what happened was, my parents are contributing a bit towards my sister’s wedding, and they said, “Don’t worry Indie, we’ll set some aside for you.” I replied sardonically, “If you’re waiting for me to get married, you might as well just buy me some furniture.” Et Voilà!

Therefore, I have concluded that this is the beginning of the end of two things. 1) The beginning of the end of feeling like I’m living like a teenager. Hello, king size bed all for me! And, 2) The beginning of the end of my youth, i.e. getting excited about furniture.

N.B. I would have posted sooner, but any radio silence was due to one of my cats taking an extended walkabout and making us all very anxious. She trotted in three days later and immediately demanded food, the adorable little shit.