Writing can be Hazardous to your Health....

Ordinarily, one wouldn’t assume writing to be a particularly dangerous occupation. Of course, if one should be so singularly stupid as to sit at one’s desk whilst perched precariously atop a crumbling cliff, then yes, it could be seen to be somewhat perilous, but most of us would see this to be a far from ideal situation in which to pen one’s memoirs or novelette.

My own scenario for warbling on my word processor is to sit in a shabby but comfortable old office chair in front of my "command centre" in the corner of my office-cum-study. Where is the danger in that, I hear you ask. Is my computer developing an electrical fault while a misplaced cup of coffee is teetering too close to a bare wire? Is there a slow build-up of invisible carbon monoxide threatening to render me comatose? (That reminds me, must get the boiler serviced.) Has Al-Qaeda decided that Weevil is the heart of Western decay, thus necessitating the total eradication of all who reside there? (Possibly it is.)


Answer: None of the above. My own personal hazard to my health is my cat. Not an allergy that could trigger a fatal asthma attack, or the fact that my murderous moggy lies in wait across the top stair; something far more sinister. Dear little Noodles (yes, Noodles) has the habit of snoozing on my desktop with paws dangling casually over my keyboard. This in itself is not a huge problem, despite the fact that when she sits up, she obscures the screen, and I cannot for the life of me touch-type. I watch the keys as I peck away with two fingers like some demented chicken. It’s only when she lies down that the real trouble starts. As I have already said, she lies with paws above my keyboard drawer, and feigns sleep while I get down to the nitty-gritty of wordsmithing. As my own paws fly about their business on the keys, she opens one lazy eye to watch, then flashes out with her claws and sinks them into my poor defenceless digits. The delete key is a particularly hazardous area which I avoid at all costs until Noodles can be distracted with a ruler while I hastily make corrections!

I have tried remedying the situation by removing said feline from the equation altogether; I hasten to add that I don’t mean a trip to the vet’s surgery, merely shifting moggy from her resting place to somewhere that I consider more comfortable for both of us. This subterfuge works for a short while, but when she has grown tired of Kitty Chunks and a quick squat on the sofa, she will gradually make her way back, crawling commando-style on her belly in the hope that I will fail to notice her subtle approach. From the corner of my eye, I spot her inching in through the door, then onto the back of my chair and finally, the nonchalent skip onto the desk again to resume her rightful (she thinks) place. What is it about cats that makes them sit in the most awkward places? Even if I have stacks of untidy paperwork in front of me, booby-trapped with staplers and hole punches concealed beneath, Noodles will still insist on flopping down atop everything as if it is the most comfortable cat bed on the planet.

This situation in itself is not usually life-threatening to most folk, merely a little painful, but after a nasty bout of septicaemia a few years back which almost led to my untimely demise, apparently I am now prone to further recurrence of this condition. Thus, if Noodles should scratch me and the scratch become infected, it may ultimately prove hazardous to my very existence. Short of adopting the somewhat inconvenient habit of wearing heavy leather gauntlets while I type, or evicting said cat into the perils of Weevil's moggy-thug underworld, I shall have to continue to take my life in my hands in the pursuit of literary stardom. So, when you read my verbal meanderings from time to time, consider the risks to life and limb (literally!) that I take to commit these words to the screen!