Fat Cats and Apple Turnovers

Ways I am economising in the Squeeze:
1) Cheap catfood for Mirabelle. This also ensures she does not become overweight, making me liable for fine of £20,000 (according to new laws about pets).
2) Take sandwiches to work instead of going to prêt. This is NOT enjoyable at all, as now I either have a high-stress early-morning sandwich-making moment, or stale, damp sandwiches made the night before.(Why do they go damp?)
3) Have started going to Sainsbury once a week. and haunting the marked-down section at the magic hour of 7.30. Moneysavingexpert said this was the thing to do. But it is psychologically quite depressing as you have to hang around a lot and people look at you suspiciously. And the ticketing people grow to loathe you.It’s doubtful whether a few packs of chicken-breasts for 60p are worth this grief. Also, strange trampy types start talking to you. A v smelly man with missing teeth has started turning up at the same time and coming over eagerly to chat to me as a ‘fellow-scrimper’ Last night he told me that his best find was when they marked-down the apple turnovers to 1p a packet. There were 200 packets on offer so he triumphantly bought all of them. For £2. He is so proud of this story, but who would want 200 stale apple turnovers? Except a madman?

Strange Foods

On Sunday we had a Green Thai curry for lunch that Jacob made (he’s been having cookery lessons at school and got v enthusiastic about being a masterchef) We all felt strange afterwards, and I decided to go home early. I’m not sure it’s a terribly good idea teaching teenagers to cook. Who really wants to eat their stuff? I mean, you feel uneasy the whole time, especially when you look closely at their expression and see how little they are eating. (And remember how they like doing silly experiments.)
Anyhoo, it was a good thing I came home early as when I got in with Mirabelle in her basket I saw a note on the mat. I was just opening a tin of catmeat for her (Mirabelle lost her appetite while at my dad’s, oddly enough. But she was desperately hungry when we got home.) When I opened the note. It was from the landlord, giving me 24 hours notice of a flat-inspection. So I stuffed Mirabelle and her dish of catfood in her basket and just raced up the stairs to the Japanese girls, but they couldn’t have her, either, as THEY were having a flat inspection, too. So I raced downstairs again, shoved the dirt-box in a carrier-bag, and rushed out into the street with all my cat-related items, and luckily managed to get a cab and go to Rache’s. And she was in – it was so, so lucky. Then I had to rush back to the flat to be there when the landlord arrived.
It was Ok. The only sticky bit was when he looked round the kitchen and saw the opened cat-food tin on the counter. Fortunately it’s a top of the range pedigree variety and doesn’t REALLY look like cat-food. (Esp as the part of the tin with the cat’s face on was turned to the wall.) I spread some on a cracker and bit into it, and then hastily put the tin in the fridge. So either he thinks it was pate, or he thinks I’m a little eccentric. Or that I’m economising in a stupid way, due to the squeeze. And none of those are grounds for kicking someone out of a flat that they keep perfectly clean, are they?
I haven’t wanted to eat anything, since, though. I seem to have stumbled on the best conditions for dieting: get teenagers to cook for you, eat catfood, and practically DIE of panic and anxiety.