Weddings and anorexia

The good news is that the wedding was wonderful – a beautiful day, they had a cheery little yellow Austin 7 that came and picked them up, and they both looked stunning and so very happy. We were proud and honoured to be there – and I managed to snuffle quietly into my hankie, rather than blubbing embarrassingly. (I noted that neither mother was crying so not sure how that reflects on me.)

We didn’t get to the reception as I wasn’t well on Sunday and was still feeling lousy yesterday, and also because we had to take Bussie to the vet again, but I’m sure they had a wonderful time and thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

The bad news, talking of Bussie, is that the vet (not the lovely Helena) thinks he might be anorexic. For someone who squandered years as a teenager and in my twenties in and out of a psychiatric hospital with this chronic problem, this sent shivers down my spine. Ever since I’ve been broody I’ve consoled myself with the fact that I won’t, at least, have an anorexic daughter. How on earth would I cope? (How does anyone cope?)

What do I now have? An anorexic son. But enough of me, I’m still in shock.

Apparently anorexia is quite common in cats that have either got a serious illness or have suffered trauma. Bussie’s actually looking much better in himself so I don’t think he’s got a serious illness, but he’s evidently been traumatised. And being somewhat of an expert on the subject, I don’t know that feline anorexia is quite the same as what we suffer. I hope not, anyway. It’s as if he’d like to eat but he keeps retching at the sight of food – it just won’t go down. Either way, he still can’t eat, but it’s not quite so psychologically sinister. I hope.

Anyway, we didn’t see the lovely Helena which was a pity as this vet was rather more heavy handed and Bussie didn’t care for her at all. She tried to get some stuff down him with a syringe, and he hated that and spat it out all over the table, then she had to give him an injection in his haunch and he yowled and jumped off onto the floor. By this time I was a nervous wreck so god knows what Bussie felt like.

Luckily by the time we got home he seemed a lot better and actually ate a tiny bit of this high calorie food she gave us, but he’s supposed to eat a tin per day to build him up and he had half a teaspoon and that was it. If he doesn’t eat, she said, we must inject him. Oh God. This brings back very unpleasant memories indeed of my colleagues being force fed (I always figured I’d rather feed myself, thank you, but it’s not pleasant to watch).

So last night dear Himself managed to get some food down him with a syringe (I wasn’t in the room at the time) and I stroked and brushed Bussie afterwards while he purred and seemed much better, to our relief. He came back after an hour or so, so he evidently didn’t hold it against us. But we’ve had to do the same thing at breakfast time and it is just horrible. I’m still shaking from the experience and that was two hours ago, so god knows what Bussie thinks. Though I did do the same thing and he went off purring.

If he’s not eating of his own accord by tomorrow we have to take him back to the vet. I feel utterly at a loss here, sinking in a mire of ignorance. What happened to traumatise my cat so much? I’d kill the bastard that did it if I find him.

So watch out. Flowerpot’s on the war path.

How do you define charisma?

A few nights ago I had a dream concerning a shrink I saw as a teenager. I was fairly hell bent on getting myself out of boarding school, which I hated and became anorexic. Somewhat drastic measures, but I felt the times were desperate. I ended up in hospital, on and off, for years (I've had my money's worth from the NHS) so I got to know this man quite well.

He had a certain manner, this man, that made you feel very comfortable. He didn’t talk a lot but his eyes smiled at you as he listened. You sensed you could trust him. He had endless patience (he needed it with me) and never turned away anyone in genuine need of help. My mother adored him – not just because he was saving her daughter’s life, but because she found him very attractive.

I haven’t thought about this man for years but I Googled him and found that he died a couple of years ago, from cancer, aged 82. There was a picture of him which gave me a real jolt, not just because it brought back a dark knot of memories that I would much rather forget, but because I realised he had Charisma. Reading on, I found that my mother and I weren’t the only ones who thought so. According to his obit, written by his ex-wife, patients, doctors, parents, nurses – everyone adored him. He was called Peter Dally – have a look and see what you think.

So what is it that makes someone attractive? In his case, he’d had polio and his legs were wasted, one in a caliper, and he had a very bad limp. Not the macho bit then. I think it was his compassion. He was prepared to listen. He was gentle yet utterly firm: no one disagreed with his judgement. Well, not to his face. His bright twinkly blue eyes looked at you as if you were the only person that mattered. His mischievous sense of humour caught you unawares. He had no sense of hierarchy and treated student nurses with the same respect as his senior colleagues.

There was a piece on the news recently saying how important Doing Good was for celebrities nowadays. We want to know that people care, not just that they have a good looking face, or a body to drool over. Thinking about all this has made me realise that Dally’s attributes would make a great checklist for characters in any novel (well, the decent ones).

I had several fallouts with Peter Dally. Terrible arguments. How he put up with me for so long I’ll never understand. But the important thing was that he had faith in me, at a time when I had none in myself. And that’s charisma enough for me.