Finally got the last component of the Cavy Castle, so now I feel I can upload photos of the thing in all its beauty. Audrey has been jumping all over the place, which I think is a sign she likes it. The ramp, though they have mastered climbing down it, is still causing some problems, although I suspect they are teasing me… When I left a trail of parsley up it, and left the room, it all vanished in a matter of seconds… but they won’t show me how they do it!

The fleece ‘bedspreads’ were made by the Lovely Lorraine, of Guinea Pig Comforts. They’re so easy to put on, and look like they’ll make cleaning up a great deal easier, too.

Frida is, of course, named for the artist Frida Kahlo. We visited Frida’s home in Mexico when we were there, and her life has always fascinated me. Her paintings, dark but somehow still beautiful, haunt me. I think they might even have inspired the novella I’m working on at the moment. As you will know, Frida always painted herself with an impressive monobrow. Thus the name. Frida was the first to eat from my hand, but is also the least brave. She doesn’t jump around quite as much as her housemate, and she often burrows her way under the bedding so I lose her.

Audrey wouldn’t let me touch her for the first few days. She could run – fast – so she always outran my advances. I was overly timid, perhaps, until my Mother-in-law-sister came over and just reached into Audrey’s hidey-hole and fished her out. Since then, Audrey is happy to be held as long as you don’t annoy her and then she’ll give you a nip on the finger. She jumps around the palace like a crazy when I’m not there, and has started to be a little braver about doing it while I’m in the room.

As I type, they are both listening to Leonard Cohen with me, and even Frida has popped her head out for a little exploration.

A grid structure alone, does not a home make. The second part of building the cage involved cutting up a mammoth sheet of corrugated plastic to make ‘trays’ that would fit inside the grids. I have to confess, the whole idea of it just seemed too daunting. I have never been one for measuring things that need to be a perfect fit. Luckily, the husband was home from work after a late-night Superbowl party, so I made use of his talents.

There are many step-by-step instructions for making these trays on the web, so I won’t go through it here. Suffice to say, I wouldn’t have had the patience!

The sides need to be at least six inches high, to avoid the piggies hopping over, though I’ve read somewhere that some can even jump the 14 inches of the grids… Let’s hope we have less athletic pigs.

Score the sides six inches in and you can then fold the sides up.

And here is the finished article. A two story palace for out little guys. The ramp is still something that will need a bit of thought… More on that later.

Not a post about guinea pigs, but one about myself.

I am reminded, often, that I must have led a very sheltered life. Not because I don’t understand pain and poverty and illness (though I’m sure I don’t understand it as much as some), but because I am often surprised by attitudes in people that seem medieval to me. I was brought up to believe in that eternal truth – the one that can be found in all the religions that ever were – ‘Treat other people as you would wish to be treated’. I teach a whole lesson on it at school. The kids, some of them, even guess it before I reveal quite what the Golden Rule is. Because it is timeless and it is perfect.

So, why is it, that so many people – especially ones who claim to follow this rule – are so narrow-minded and so cruel? Why is it, that so many Christians believe themselves to be ‘allowed’ to judge others in the name of God, or tell other people how to live their lives? Once, I knew a God who loved people. Yes, He said that I should go out and convert people, but I believed that was because people would be happy with God in their lives. I still believe that, but I’m not so sure that most Christians do. Most Christians, I suspect, tell you about God because it makes them feel superior. They are going to Heaven and you aren’t. You silly, little thing.

But I’ll tell you this. I don’t want to go to Heaven if, when I get there, it is full of judgemental, poisonous people. I don’t want to share ‘paradise’ with homophobes, racists, misogynists, idiots. The Jesus I read in the Bible surrounded himself with women, though they were considered lesser; he invited the children to come to him, when his friends said they were a nuisance; he loved women who may have been ‘fallen’ and men who had dubious careers. The only people he didn’t want to spend time with were those religious, judgemental people who kept telling everyone else they were wrong.

The greatest commandment is this: Love the Lord your God… and love your neighbour as yourself. When the Christian Church gets this one right (and not just in rare cases like my Daddy, or lovely Rowan) I might consider coming back.

Project guinea pig continues. These pigs (when we eventually go out and get some) are going to have a better home than I do!

Today, still waiting for the corrugated plastic which should arrive on Monday, I set about decorating a couple of hidey-holes for the little guys. I started with some very simple wooden huts which I bought online.

Then, using a paint I was assured was pet-friendly and wouldn’t cause too many problems if it got chewed a little, I made them my own. If, when we get the pigs, they decide they like to chew them a little too much, I’ll probably take them out – not sure I like the idea of them eating paint, however ‘safe’ it is.

But paint alone does not a home make. So I decorated them, too, using little wooden embellishments, painted to match.

A good morning’s work. Now to wash the paint out of my hair (don’t ask!).

When we bought the house, I suppose we thought that one day the tiny second bedroom would make a good nursery. But God seems to  be holding out on that particular blessing for the moment (and given the year I’ve had, I think I’m with him). So we agreed it would be a good place to house the other new additions to the family that we’re planning.

I was really stuck on the idea of getting a dog. But after much discussion (I think the husband started to think he was having a conversation with a very small child) we agreed that a dog was just a little too much work. For a start, you simply can’t leave a puppy alone in a house for the amount of time I’m out at work, even if it is only three days a week. I looked into Doggy Day Care, which I know a few friends use, but the price of it almost made it easier to quit work and stay at home! Also, whilst I like to imagine I’d happily get up in the night for a crying baby, I’m not so keen on a whimpering puppy losing me my sleep. So, we agreed on Guinea Pigs.

A lot of my facebook friends had things to say on the topic. But I’ve lived with my fair share of rats in the past, and so they weren’t an option. Hamsters, too, freak me out a bit too much. Too small.

One of the best ways to keep Guinea pigs (or Cavies, for their Latin name Cavia porcellus) according to those in the know, is in a home-built cage. The ones you buy at the pet shop are tiny and, if you want to keep them in the house as we have decided to, far too difficult to clean out, too. So, I did some research into what they call C and C cages (Cubes and Coroplast), and ordered some pieces on the internet from the few UK companies that seem to stock such things.

The grids (or cubes) arrived this afternoon from Grendle Entertainment.

They come in packs of 26 grids with connectors and cable ties. The holes between in the grids are just under 1.5 inches – which makes them safe for little guinea pigs, no strangling and no escaping.

At first, I used the connectors to attach the grids together, but they seemed clumsy and left space between each of the grids that made me a little nervous. So I took advice from other Guinea pig owners who have made such cages and chose to use the cable ties only.

The cage will eventually be a two-storey affair. The bottom part is 2×4 (each grid is 14inches). The top storey is 1×2 and should be good for feeding them, or just giving them hay to play with. This storey will be reachable by a ramp – not too steep or the little fellas won’t be able to climb it.

The ‘cage’ can stay open topped as, I’m promised, guinea pigs don’t climb. And, as long as you don’t have other animals in the house, they are quite safe without a roof.

Eventually, the cage will need to be raised from the floor in some way, guinea pigs don’t much like being on the floor – they’re a little scared by giant humans clomping around… and given that humans still eat them in some places, I don’t really blame them.

The next ‘c’ of the ‘c and c cage’ after these cubes is ‘Corroplast’ or, in the UK, that corrugated plastic stuff you make signs out of. That proved a little harder to get hold of (without buying it in bulk) but I think I have some on the way. It’ll need to be cut into boxes the size of the lower cage and the Hay Loft. I’m not really looking forward to that bit, it sounds a little complicated… but I’m sure I can persuade the Husband to help out if needs be.

See some funky C and C cages here. I’ll keep you updated on the other exciting decorating plans I have for the Castle (and let you know when we actually have someone to live in it!).

When I was growing up, we never had any animals in the house (unless you count those weird Sea Monkey things, I think LittleBigSis had some of those). I imagine it had to do with there already being four children in the house, and us living on the bread-line most of the time (I might exaggerate). That being the case, the idea of owning a pet has always filled me with fear. I had a Furbie in the nineties, I loved it more than words can say. When it’s batteries died, I was inconsolable. I didn’t think I could cope with the idea of a real pet dying.

But recently, I’ve been reading a lot about the health benefits of having animals in your life. The research, nearly 25 years old some of it, suggests that people who own pets have lower blood pressure and report much less anxiety. Spending much of the day alone, as I do, I have to admit I sometimes get a little lonely. There’s only so much talking to oneself that I can do!

So, I’ve spent a week or two trying to persuade the Husband that we need to widen our little family circle to include a few little furry things. For those of you that are interested, some of the other health benefits include:

– A sense of purpose in the Care-giver

– Companionship

– Milder reactions to (and quicker recovery from) stress and stressful situations

– A reasons to get up in the morning (very important for those of you who, like me, struggle sometimes to see the point)

– A potential widening of your social circle (dog walkers talk in the park, online forums are rife, meeting local breeders, etc)

As I fell asleep last night, having completed the first draft of my current novel, I had a sudden revelation about how I could spend the extra time I will have. After Christmas, I hope to be learning to play a musical instrument… but for now I needed to find something else to do.

And so, I pulled out an old project that I had started so years ago. Perhaps I even started it before I was married, I know we’ve carted it around in a box, and had it stored under the bed for some time.

I think I had intended sometime to use it in lessons, though I am unlikely to do that now. The project? A Mouth Puppet, similar to a muppet, made of felt.

Check out the slideshow, if you’re interested in seeing the work in progress. I’m pretty chuffed with it.

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But now I have to find myself something else to do. Something other than editing the Novel. Which I don’t really know how to do…

The husband says I’m an advertiser’s DREAM. I don’t go much in for following brands, but when I find one I love I love them passionately and without reason (much like I love the husband). I love Vodafone.

I have loved Vodafone since their advertising slogan was all about Vodafone Moments – those moments that truly connect people. I had my own Vodafone moment on the top of a mountain somewhere in the pouring rain, when the Best Friend phoned to tell me she was getting married. I couldn’t have been happier (although I could have been a lot warmer). Even when the iPhone originally came out, and I really wanted one, I refused to leave my lovely Vodafone waiting, instead, until I could find some to hack an old iPhone of the Husband’s so I could use that.

Today, I love Vodafone because of the girl at the Wimbledon shop who took my broken baby iPhone (dropped on the ground and smashed into pieces) and sent it off to be repaired. (See? That’s why I pay the insurance… I put the last iPhone through the washing machine earlier this year. Duh). Then, seeing I was due an upgrade, she sent me home with a brand new iPhone 4S and the advice “When the insurance people send you back a new phone – which they almost certainly will – you can sell it on. We buy them back for £89, but you’d get a much better price somewhere else, so I’d shop around”. She even told me not to buy a cover with white bits round the camera, because it gives the flash photos and funny glare.

I love Vodafone. They rock.

I confess I haven’t read many relationship manuals. I’ve never really had a problem with relationships, being -as my brother once said about himself – a serial monogamist. I went from one long-term relationship to another, only having my heart broken once or twice. For a long time, I dated men who would do whatever I told them… then I dated a few men for whom I would do whatever they told me. Either way, I never once wondered why we weren’t communicating properly.

The Husband is a different species, perhaps. Sometimes we really aren’t sure we’re speaking the same language. We find ourselves in difficult discussions where neither of us are really clear about how we got there, or how to get out.

But. I’m not sure this is actually a gender issue. I’m not sure it isn’t just that we are different people. And thank God we are. I don’t think I’d last five minutes in a relationship with someone like me. I’d want to kill them immediately.

I look at our friends’ choices of partner. None is quite the same. Some choose someone so unlike them you wonder what they might ever talk about. Some choose someone so similar, you worry they’ll never through life because they’ll keep making the same decisions, with no one to give them an alternate opinion. Some like to be in charge, some like someone else to be. A father figure, a surrogate mother, a child to care for. My friends are not unlike other people’s, we’re a fairly normal crew. Which leads me to believe that books which claim to help women to ‘understand their men’ are mostly a total waste of space. Each man – like each relationship – is different. Maybe relationship self-help books are one of the last acceptable forms of prejudice and discrimination.

My husband is from Mars. But so are some of my female friends. And I know a lot of guys who have clearly spent time on Venus. Let’s stop pretending it’s as easy to explain as having different genitalia.