30th January Thought for the Day :
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try....
Another thought...
Heigho! the lark and the owl!
One flies the morning, and one lulls the night:
Only the nightingale, poor fond soul,
Sings like the fool through darkness and light.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Archie's song, Charles I.
Maybe, taking the long view, PBS timed the Bay of Naples boat trip well enough...
All very well in the Regency, but honestly, a media atheist veggie as Poet Laureate to Queen Alexandrina ?
My Early Life... Afterthoughts
All cats must leave home. This is a small and cruel law of nature. While still with my mother, I learned many essential truths and, in theory at least, I learned to hunt too.
Ecologically, domestic cats live in an artificial environmental niche, supported, hideously, by body and soul destroying conglommerates. One of their latest ploys, now the World Health Organisation has frowned on baby milk, is peddling junk food to the two dollars a day market. I can't afford lawyers so no names or air time. Small, efficient, ruthless little tigres de salon, we could catch all our own food, the way we used to. Fed by global etc , there are far too many of us, our numbers unsustainable. This, supposedly, is what we should live on :
Mice. Rats. Birds. Fish.
& Carrion.
The last Carrion I saw was one of those burst badgers farmers keep squashing, blaming the poor creatures for TB, instead of their own lousy greedy abuse of dairy cattle.
The last Carrion but one was much more exciting... There she was, splayed out, full length, across the frozen fellside, as if she'd just stumbled, fallen flat on her face. Any minute now, she'd be up on her feet, bounding away and out of sight...
Three days later, what was left of her ?
Nothing but bare bones... Something had begun to chew at her ribs... Carrion, technically, I suppose, but if Carrion is spelled Venison, lead me to it.
Dead badgers rot until they dissolve or go off bang, like putrid animals in biological warfare, the romantic mediaeval version...
Legally or not, farmers seem to think badgers are fair game...Badgers don't cause TB. They catch it, but this isn't their fault. Run over, accidentally on purpose, dead badgers stink for weeks on end and they taste nasty too.
My source for this information is first hand and impeccable, because he really is a Carrion Crow.
Mice and rats ? Purrrlease...The silly creatures eat yummy tit-bits people put down for them, laced with warfarin and that new stuff too, Last Supper, before they die, quietly, under the floorboards or the sink.
Birds ? Verboten... My mother explained this to me. The entire R.S.P.B. would have my (cat) guts for garters...
Waste of time and energy, usually... Pied flycatchers, redstarts, long-tailed tits, ring ouzels and those useless little firecrests... Not worth the effort, honestly... One swallow doesn't make a summer ? Take it from me, ten swallows don't make a supper. Give me a fat little Flopsy Bunny any day, organic and free-range...
Except the gall-bladder... Never, ever eat this.
I have no conscious memory of this lesson, but one day, my beloved mother must have purred into my tiny ear a lesson on the consumption of free range bunny, mouse, vole, squirrel.
Gall bladder out, food for the gods. (and Cats)
Gall bladder in, unfit for feline comsumption, green, tainted, diabolical.
My mother was an excellent teacher. The abandoned waif who came to live under my authority never learned this essential skill. Teaching her has proved impossible. The idiotic creature once tried to eat a mouse, without first performing this essential gustatory operation. Since when, she has never dared eat anything bigger than a spider.
Proof that she is almost completely brainless. Even the foolish Tom Kitten could manage mice. (but not, of course, Samuel Whiskers)
)
Monday, 30 January 2012
Friday, 27 January 2012
MagnifiCat
My Early Life
Part II
This ( promises promises) really is all you ever need to know. I'll try to keep it snappy, focus on essentials. No sob-stuff, no trauma.
I lived in a sickeningly picturesque, roses round the door cottage, complete with skull-cracking beams and far too many spiders. Just off the main village street, and the views were exceptional. By village, I don't mean anywhere with a Waitrose and a shop selling ribbons. The house where I was born is in a real village, with two live pubs, a school, a church, a Post Office a war memorial, and road signs to places people cross continents to see...
Writing about places like my birthplace, property journalists always throw in their narky ' why not' about buying.. This is because the entire breed ( estate agents, property journalists , out of work media types) all live in London and hate people who've managed to live somewhere beautiful instead.
O.K. the garden wasn't quite up to Yellow Book standard. The man had better things to do. Campaigning against the arms trade, why would he go in for chemical warfare? He shared his cherries, damsons, plums,strawberries, Tay berries and raspberries with other local wildlife, including the local coati... Not rhubarb, nothing else seems to eat the stuff, not even slugs. When the latter overstepped the agreed mark, he did entice a few of them to delicious death, with dregs of ... the local brew. Local = in the village, none of that C*** P*** stuff in the adverts. Describing my birthplace, I left out the brewery. Oversight... The brewery is one good reason to track down where I live. As for the slugs, death was their own fault and would have been peaceful.
Back to My Early Life
The girl and her father came twice, first to choose me, as the most beautiful and the only girl. Four weeks later, they were back. That was the last time I saw my the house where I was born, or my mother, or my brothers.
No crocodile tears... Why should I care about the brothers ? The two who survived infancy wanted all my share of everything, milk, our mother, space in the basket... My heart goes out to anyone who does have a brother.
Perhaps yours will improve with time. Mine ? We'd come to a parting of the ways, won't meet again.
Two weeks old, blue-eyed and mewling, ( me, not the girl )I was chosen, my fate was sealed. A month later, and any vet will tell you this was far too soon, the girl, her sister and her father came to take me away. One last passionate nuzzle at my favourite nipple... My mother, since you daren't ask, tasted of sweetness. In my own way, of course I loved her, she was my mother, cats don't do complicated, not about our mothers... I loved her, she loved us.
But I couldn't have stayed with her, sooner or later, we'd have to part, ae fond lick and gone forever...
A cat and her kindle of kittens is a classic icon of maternity. One old cat and three young cats = every single bill x 4, the vet, the food, the residential care, and even those laughably inadequate bribes people offer to neighbours, sickly fudge, sour wine, broken biscuits, poncey chocolates and, for godsake, tea-towels.
The last item is, of course, completely unforgiveable. Give a woman who's been kind to you a tea-towel and she will never, ever speak to you again. And if you leave the price on this tea-towel, she will, definitely, speak to every single one of your Facebook friends. She will tweet at the top of her voice until the whole world knows that you gave her a tea-towel and called it a PRESENT.
Cats don't wash up, but please remember this warning.
Prattling on about tea-towels and what not to give, I was avoiding the unavoidable truth, the sad and terrible reason why my brothers and I had to leave our mother so soon.
She was dying.
Part II
This ( promises promises) really is all you ever need to know. I'll try to keep it snappy, focus on essentials. No sob-stuff, no trauma.
I lived in a sickeningly picturesque, roses round the door cottage, complete with skull-cracking beams and far too many spiders. Just off the main village street, and the views were exceptional. By village, I don't mean anywhere with a Waitrose and a shop selling ribbons. The house where I was born is in a real village, with two live pubs, a school, a church, a Post Office a war memorial, and road signs to places people cross continents to see...
Writing about places like my birthplace, property journalists always throw in their narky ' why not' about buying.. This is because the entire breed ( estate agents, property journalists , out of work media types) all live in London and hate people who've managed to live somewhere beautiful instead.
O.K. the garden wasn't quite up to Yellow Book standard. The man had better things to do. Campaigning against the arms trade, why would he go in for chemical warfare? He shared his cherries, damsons, plums,strawberries, Tay berries and raspberries with other local wildlife, including the local coati... Not rhubarb, nothing else seems to eat the stuff, not even slugs. When the latter overstepped the agreed mark, he did entice a few of them to delicious death, with dregs of ... the local brew. Local = in the village, none of that C*** P*** stuff in the adverts. Describing my birthplace, I left out the brewery. Oversight... The brewery is one good reason to track down where I live. As for the slugs, death was their own fault and would have been peaceful.
Back to My Early Life
The girl and her father came twice, first to choose me, as the most beautiful and the only girl. Four weeks later, they were back. That was the last time I saw my the house where I was born, or my mother, or my brothers.
No crocodile tears... Why should I care about the brothers ? The two who survived infancy wanted all my share of everything, milk, our mother, space in the basket... My heart goes out to anyone who does have a brother.
Perhaps yours will improve with time. Mine ? We'd come to a parting of the ways, won't meet again.
Two weeks old, blue-eyed and mewling, ( me, not the girl )I was chosen, my fate was sealed. A month later, and any vet will tell you this was far too soon, the girl, her sister and her father came to take me away. One last passionate nuzzle at my favourite nipple... My mother, since you daren't ask, tasted of sweetness. In my own way, of course I loved her, she was my mother, cats don't do complicated, not about our mothers... I loved her, she loved us.
But I couldn't have stayed with her, sooner or later, we'd have to part, ae fond lick and gone forever...
A cat and her kindle of kittens is a classic icon of maternity. One old cat and three young cats = every single bill x 4, the vet, the food, the residential care, and even those laughably inadequate bribes people offer to neighbours, sickly fudge, sour wine, broken biscuits, poncey chocolates and, for godsake, tea-towels.
The last item is, of course, completely unforgiveable. Give a woman who's been kind to you a tea-towel and she will never, ever speak to you again. And if you leave the price on this tea-towel, she will, definitely, speak to every single one of your Facebook friends. She will tweet at the top of her voice until the whole world knows that you gave her a tea-towel and called it a PRESENT.
Cats don't wash up, but please remember this warning.
Prattling on about tea-towels and what not to give, I was avoiding the unavoidable truth, the sad and terrible reason why my brothers and I had to leave our mother so soon.
She was dying.
Thursday, 26 January 2012
MagnifiCat
My Early Life...
Once upon a time there were three little kittens, and their...
Sorry... Wrong file, someone else's story , borderline plagiarism, and at first, there were four of us.
I was the youngest and the only female.
You see the immediate benefits of our inheritance law. As the only girl, it was winner takes all...
In any rational and intelligent community, inheritance and all other rights are claimed through the maternal line.
Wise and ancient faiths know this. For instance, the Lord God blessed Abr (ah)am and his seed for ever. Allegedly, all those people with wonderful names begat each other, Judas and Phares and Salmon and Booz and Aminadab and Jechonias...
Sorry, sorry, and PLEASE don't read this as anti - anyone...
Blame, instead, my humble and all-American spellchecker, which can't be doing with bog-standard UK English, never mind names like Zorobabel...
The point is, and never mind all that endless begatting, every single one of the Chosen People MUST have a Jewish mother.
' Jacob begat Joseph, the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called the Christ'
Begatting DOESN'T COUNT, especially without a DNA test, not available in the first century CE. Ask any friendly rabbi.
( Depending on which expert you approach S/he might explain that times have changed. Excluding the heirs of males from their rightful inheritance isn't fair. Agreed, of course, I was simply reporting the traditional position. )
I know almost nothing about my father.Who cares ? Hath the rain a father ? I am, beyond all doubt, my mother's daughter and heir. Other and deeply flawed systems would put me at the very bottom, last-born of all her kittens and female.
Instead, for my mother, there was rejoicing, relief, certainty.
After many litters, far far too many, she'd fulfilled her destiny at last, done her duty. ( My beauty was accidental. It just happened. Ever heard of a Cat signing up for cosmetic surgey ? Of course not. )
There are no ordinary cats, every one of our race created and born in beauty, but random grace shaped me particularly well. Two of my brothers were twins, black and white, not very black, rather too much white, always the last kittens of a litter to go. Half-brothers, actually, the same litter, different fathers... It happens...Don't be judgmental.
My real brother died. Silver tabby, marked like a perfect mackerel sky, he'd have no problem finding a home. Instead, he was buried in the garden under a rowan tree, with two goldfish, one guinea-pig and half a stoat. The (homo sapiens) children cried. They'd come to visit their father. Instead, they discovered death. I never loved my tabby brother and no, of course I don't miss him. Death came when we were far too young for love or hate. Ten days old, all kittens care about is milk. Finding the best nipple... He always lay next to me.
The day this brother died, I heard my first tears, the children crying, their father gentle, hiding his own quiet tears. The children lived somewhere else, with their mother I suppose, just like kittens. Nobody lived with their father, rather like mine, I suppose, whoever he was.
This is completely ridiculous... Mawkish, almost cringe-making... I promised, faithfully, cross my heart and hope to die, NO MIS LIT. As the Lady said, let other pens dwell on grief and misery.
A kitten died. Ten minutes later, this man and his grief stricken children were watching Shrek and stuffing themselves with deep-fill pizza. Straight out of the cartwheel box, no plates, no knives, no forks, and the kids could stay up till morning. Next day, and this is where the real memories begin, the girl and her father knocked at the door. My eyes were opened. I saw grief, but why ?
Once upon a time there were three little kittens, and their...
Sorry... Wrong file, someone else's story , borderline plagiarism, and at first, there were four of us.
I was the youngest and the only female.
You see the immediate benefits of our inheritance law. As the only girl, it was winner takes all...
In any rational and intelligent community, inheritance and all other rights are claimed through the maternal line.
Wise and ancient faiths know this. For instance, the Lord God blessed Abr (ah)am and his seed for ever. Allegedly, all those people with wonderful names begat each other, Judas and Phares and Salmon and Booz and Aminadab and Jechonias...
Sorry, sorry, and PLEASE don't read this as anti - anyone...
Blame, instead, my humble and all-American spellchecker, which can't be doing with bog-standard UK English, never mind names like Zorobabel...
The point is, and never mind all that endless begatting, every single one of the Chosen People MUST have a Jewish mother.
' Jacob begat Joseph, the husband of Mary, of whom was born Jesus, who is called the Christ'
Begatting DOESN'T COUNT, especially without a DNA test, not available in the first century CE. Ask any friendly rabbi.
( Depending on which expert you approach S/he might explain that times have changed. Excluding the heirs of males from their rightful inheritance isn't fair. Agreed, of course, I was simply reporting the traditional position. )
I know almost nothing about my father.Who cares ? Hath the rain a father ? I am, beyond all doubt, my mother's daughter and heir. Other and deeply flawed systems would put me at the very bottom, last-born of all her kittens and female.
Instead, for my mother, there was rejoicing, relief, certainty.
After many litters, far far too many, she'd fulfilled her destiny at last, done her duty. ( My beauty was accidental. It just happened. Ever heard of a Cat signing up for cosmetic surgey ? Of course not. )
There are no ordinary cats, every one of our race created and born in beauty, but random grace shaped me particularly well. Two of my brothers were twins, black and white, not very black, rather too much white, always the last kittens of a litter to go. Half-brothers, actually, the same litter, different fathers... It happens...Don't be judgmental.
My real brother died. Silver tabby, marked like a perfect mackerel sky, he'd have no problem finding a home. Instead, he was buried in the garden under a rowan tree, with two goldfish, one guinea-pig and half a stoat. The (homo sapiens) children cried. They'd come to visit their father. Instead, they discovered death. I never loved my tabby brother and no, of course I don't miss him. Death came when we were far too young for love or hate. Ten days old, all kittens care about is milk. Finding the best nipple... He always lay next to me.
The day this brother died, I heard my first tears, the children crying, their father gentle, hiding his own quiet tears. The children lived somewhere else, with their mother I suppose, just like kittens. Nobody lived with their father, rather like mine, I suppose, whoever he was.
This is completely ridiculous... Mawkish, almost cringe-making... I promised, faithfully, cross my heart and hope to die, NO MIS LIT. As the Lady said, let other pens dwell on grief and misery.
A kitten died. Ten minutes later, this man and his grief stricken children were watching Shrek and stuffing themselves with deep-fill pizza. Straight out of the cartwheel box, no plates, no knives, no forks, and the kids could stay up till morning. Next day, and this is where the real memories begin, the girl and her father knocked at the door. My eyes were opened. I saw grief, but why ?
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
MagnifiCat
MagnifiCat 24th Jan
Vanum est vobis ante lucem surgere, surgite postquam sederitis, qui mandicatis panem doloris...
Translation : It's half-past five, you stupid woman, come back to bed...
Actually, before we go any further, it must be time to tell you about My Early Life. It's conventional. All important people write their autobiography, especially if they know that destiny has called them.
This isn't my CV, but we'd better get it out of the way, and I promise to be brief.
No mis lit. Ever. Nobody ever called me It. And if any idiot tried to call me Ugly, I'd just laugh, and I am, of course, a cat...
Mis Lit is an absolutely terrible idea. Miserable childhood ? Forget it.
If that's too much to ask, stop remembering.
Remembering sad and horrible things is the no-brain equivalent of making yourself sick. It hurts your brain.
This is absolutely true. Read New Scientist... Read that weird Lord Peter Wimsey, the one about the body in the bath.. The mad bad doctor treats the human wreckage of WWI, including shell-shocked Lord P, tells him about the actual brain damage caused by such trauma..
Took another few decades to get the imaging right, but they'd worked out the theory..
Sad and horrible experiences leave scars on your brain. Remembering is like picking a scab.
Clothed from head to foot in silky magnificent fur, remembering too much isn't the kind of thing I'd do. An old memory drifts past, like a bad smell, something dead, somewhere.. Not nice, better forgotten, please don't remind me.
Misery is a nice little earner for some, of course.
Open Yell (Not the last stop before Unst, just the phone book)
Your local will do...
If it helps, read the ads in a James Nesbit voiceover... Still with me ?
My Yell's open, and I'm counting. One hundred counsellors. Twenty-eight psychotherapists. Thirty-three hypnotherapists, couple of dozen mentors, Alexander, Pilates, five kinds of yoga, and for the really truly desperate, there's botox...
This,, meaning the catchment area of my YELL, is in a place where lifting thine eyes unto the hills is unavoidable. You look up, and there they are, purple-headed mountains, rivers running by, the boys in blue overhead...
How can anyone live here and need hypnotherapy ?
(Botox does in fact have its uses, especially for females of a certain age, but not where you might think)
Where was I ?
Mentors, life-coaches, every kind of shrink... None of these sad and wickedly expensive people can possibly make you happy.
It's Time for My Early Life, , mine, not Winston Churchill's, after which I will never, ever talk about my mother again.
Promise. (and please don't tell me about yours. Mine was lovely. That's all ye need to know, or ever know. I bet your mother was vile. Bound to be, if you want to tell the world about her. Children ( all species) shouldn't need to think about their mothers. Cliche but true. The children (all species) didn't ask to be born. And nobody ever fell pregnant.
Vanum est vobis ante lucem surgere, surgite postquam sederitis, qui mandicatis panem doloris...
Translation : It's half-past five, you stupid woman, come back to bed...
Actually, before we go any further, it must be time to tell you about My Early Life. It's conventional. All important people write their autobiography, especially if they know that destiny has called them.
This isn't my CV, but we'd better get it out of the way, and I promise to be brief.
No mis lit. Ever. Nobody ever called me It. And if any idiot tried to call me Ugly, I'd just laugh, and I am, of course, a cat...
Mis Lit is an absolutely terrible idea. Miserable childhood ? Forget it.
If that's too much to ask, stop remembering.
Remembering sad and horrible things is the no-brain equivalent of making yourself sick. It hurts your brain.
This is absolutely true. Read New Scientist... Read that weird Lord Peter Wimsey, the one about the body in the bath.. The mad bad doctor treats the human wreckage of WWI, including shell-shocked Lord P, tells him about the actual brain damage caused by such trauma..
Took another few decades to get the imaging right, but they'd worked out the theory..
Sad and horrible experiences leave scars on your brain. Remembering is like picking a scab.
Clothed from head to foot in silky magnificent fur, remembering too much isn't the kind of thing I'd do. An old memory drifts past, like a bad smell, something dead, somewhere.. Not nice, better forgotten, please don't remind me.
Misery is a nice little earner for some, of course.
Open Yell (Not the last stop before Unst, just the phone book)
Your local will do...
If it helps, read the ads in a James Nesbit voiceover... Still with me ?
My Yell's open, and I'm counting. One hundred counsellors. Twenty-eight psychotherapists. Thirty-three hypnotherapists, couple of dozen mentors, Alexander, Pilates, five kinds of yoga, and for the really truly desperate, there's botox...
This,, meaning the catchment area of my YELL, is in a place where lifting thine eyes unto the hills is unavoidable. You look up, and there they are, purple-headed mountains, rivers running by, the boys in blue overhead...
How can anyone live here and need hypnotherapy ?
(Botox does in fact have its uses, especially for females of a certain age, but not where you might think)
Where was I ?
Mentors, life-coaches, every kind of shrink... None of these sad and wickedly expensive people can possibly make you happy.
It's Time for My Early Life, , mine, not Winston Churchill's, after which I will never, ever talk about my mother again.
Promise. (and please don't tell me about yours. Mine was lovely. That's all ye need to know, or ever know. I bet your mother was vile. Bound to be, if you want to tell the world about her. Children ( all species) shouldn't need to think about their mothers. Cliche but true. The children (all species) didn't ask to be born. And nobody ever fell pregnant.
Friday, 20 January 2012
MagnifiCat
Magnificat 20th Jan
FeLV, panleucopaenia, and anything else the vet says I need...
I'm safe ! Immunised, and I have a free at point of need dentist too. (expensive, obviously, but I'm not paying)
Sharp, white, perfect and very pointy teeth...
I break necks. I stop hearts. I eat still-warm flesh and fur and bones. (but not the nasty green bit)
Ever looked at a cat's skull ? The teeth say who I am, cat, killer, ruthless. Afterwards, full and finished with death, I'm just as beautiful, curled on a bed, cat by the fireside, or basking beside the long row of bright geraniums. ( Only those weary-dreary TV gardeners explain, tediously, that they're PELARGONIUMS.
I'm in the Humpty-Dumpty camp... When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean...
Geraniums... Crimson and scarlet, in deep blue pots, on the wide slate shelf, just below my window... Where are they now ? It doesn't seem to be Winter, there's no snow, and nothing else either... especially sun.
I used to bask in just the right position for writers & artists and passing cameramen/women. A cat, even just any cat, transforms even a dull photo.The last time a glossy cameraman came this way, probably to pap some infinitely dull celeb, he saw me instead, stopped in his tracks, said to himself, Who is that wonderful cat ?
So there you are... MagnifiCat, the centrefold star...
Not, actually, because I refused to have my middle stapled... One full page in a very fine publication was exactly the right degree of exposure.
Today, before breakfast, I was wondering about the powers of darkness and ££££ £& $$$$$. (In a household blighted by poverty, this ancient keyboard I'm using doesn't have a euro sign. )
I wonder about all the 00000 too. Lots of them are still awol, all over the world, and it can't all be Sir Fred's fault, can it ? Or the one who made off with everything ? ( Madoff ? What kind of name is that ? )
Nobody tells me anything... Did the powers of darkness actually destroy money ? Or was it some kind of moral Roundup ? Last night, just before I went out, I heard tears and I know why... This is worrying. My friends used to laugh... Now it's all silence and tears... Most days, I wander in at about four in the morning, but perhaps, with things as they are, I should make that three. Studying the species, I know it's their very worst time. They need me, soft, heavy, curled beside them as they lie awake, worrying about jobs and money and love. And food ?
They used to lie awake worrying about mad cows, foot and mouth ( what on earth was all that about ? ) bird flu, pig flu, MMR for their babies... Now they just worry, can't seem to stop...
The very good news is, I'm not scared of cat flu or cat anything, because (see above) my private health care package includes immunisation against that too. No pig flu... I can't catch it ( or foot and mouth) Picky little creatures, viruses.
If, if, if...If only I had enough ££££ or $$$$, or even euros, I'd give everyone MagniCat healthcare. I don't pay. Why should anybody else ? One day (sed noli modem) I'll grow old... Then, very gently, I really will fall asleep.
Look in the yellow book...Can you find any care home for people like me ?
Old, blind, deaf, in pain ? Not able to eat, or wash, or anything ?
Of course not... Nobody will ever treat me like that. It's against the law...
FeLV, panleucopaenia, and anything else the vet says I need...
I'm safe ! Immunised, and I have a free at point of need dentist too. (expensive, obviously, but I'm not paying)
Sharp, white, perfect and very pointy teeth...
I break necks. I stop hearts. I eat still-warm flesh and fur and bones. (but not the nasty green bit)
Ever looked at a cat's skull ? The teeth say who I am, cat, killer, ruthless. Afterwards, full and finished with death, I'm just as beautiful, curled on a bed, cat by the fireside, or basking beside the long row of bright geraniums. ( Only those weary-dreary TV gardeners explain, tediously, that they're PELARGONIUMS.
I'm in the Humpty-Dumpty camp... When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean...
Geraniums... Crimson and scarlet, in deep blue pots, on the wide slate shelf, just below my window... Where are they now ? It doesn't seem to be Winter, there's no snow, and nothing else either... especially sun.
I used to bask in just the right position for writers & artists and passing cameramen/women. A cat, even just any cat, transforms even a dull photo.The last time a glossy cameraman came this way, probably to pap some infinitely dull celeb, he saw me instead, stopped in his tracks, said to himself, Who is that wonderful cat ?
So there you are... MagnifiCat, the centrefold star...
Not, actually, because I refused to have my middle stapled... One full page in a very fine publication was exactly the right degree of exposure.
Today, before breakfast, I was wondering about the powers of darkness and ££££ £& $$$$$. (In a household blighted by poverty, this ancient keyboard I'm using doesn't have a euro sign. )
I wonder about all the 00000 too. Lots of them are still awol, all over the world, and it can't all be Sir Fred's fault, can it ? Or the one who made off with everything ? ( Madoff ? What kind of name is that ? )
Nobody tells me anything... Did the powers of darkness actually destroy money ? Or was it some kind of moral Roundup ? Last night, just before I went out, I heard tears and I know why... This is worrying. My friends used to laugh... Now it's all silence and tears... Most days, I wander in at about four in the morning, but perhaps, with things as they are, I should make that three. Studying the species, I know it's their very worst time. They need me, soft, heavy, curled beside them as they lie awake, worrying about jobs and money and love. And food ?
They used to lie awake worrying about mad cows, foot and mouth ( what on earth was all that about ? ) bird flu, pig flu, MMR for their babies... Now they just worry, can't seem to stop...
The very good news is, I'm not scared of cat flu or cat anything, because (see above) my private health care package includes immunisation against that too. No pig flu... I can't catch it ( or foot and mouth) Picky little creatures, viruses.
If, if, if...If only I had enough ££££ or $$$$, or even euros, I'd give everyone MagniCat healthcare. I don't pay. Why should anybody else ? One day (sed noli modem) I'll grow old... Then, very gently, I really will fall asleep.
Look in the yellow book...Can you find any care home for people like me ?
Old, blind, deaf, in pain ? Not able to eat, or wash, or anything ?
Of course not... Nobody will ever treat me like that. It's against the law...
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Whenever I play with my cat
Today, the powers of darkness are scaring my poor friends stiff.
(it would be rude and undemocratic to call them my staff. Untrue anyway, as I never pay them a penny, or £ or $$$ )
They're scared of losing their jobs, their hair, their breasts/French chicken fillets, and even their houses. Some weird idea that the Government, whoever they are, will get everybody over 45 to move out and live in a portacabin ?
( Extraordinary idea... I need to think about that one, surely the house in which I live is mine, not theirs ? And where are the boomerang kids supposed to go ? )
My poor sad friends are scared of flying, driving and catching trains. Boats sink, planes fall out of the sky, cars and trains crash. Planes and boats and trains, even if you reach your destination intact, all the other passengers have a deadly virus. Or they're en route to a hen/stag party. Personally, after just one experience of a train-load of drunken hens, last Friday evening, I'd rather take my chances with the deadly virus.
What was I, MagnifiCat, doing on a train, in the company of hens ?
Good question, and, as this is a No-secrets, complete Freedom of Information site, you can have an answer.
Like almost everything Green, the explanation is boring, time-wasting, inefficient and desperately inconvenient. Plus, my poor deluded friends were trying to kill a whole flock of birds with one stone.
(I don't mean the drunken hens. See below...)
The train was a last resort, and this is how it happened. Painfully Green, my friends have only one car. (guess the colour)
My private health care package includes a routine whole-body annual onceover, dentist, and all my jabs/shots, whatever you like to call them.
Was their journey really necessary ? Absolutely essential, I'd say. Taking the Servant of the Living God to visit her personal physician is a privilege and a duty. If you ask me, Green is a short for grief and misery. We couldn't just drive to the surgery, see my doctors ( note the plural) agree on my beauty, then drive calmly home.
Being Green is sheer insanity...
Saving petrol and/or the planet, we squeezed in the supermarket, the cobbler (top end of town, Green means no new shoes. Ever, ever again... )
Then the garage. (t'other end & wrong side of the one-way system)
New tyre ?
I know that look on their faces... I, MagnifiCat, am inscrutable. You can't read my face. I know every flicker, every sigh, every tear. Men in overalls looked at the Green car... They sighed too...
Told you this was boring...
Of course I objected, loudly. You simply cannot let them get away with this kind of thing. He stayed, sick and Green with worry. She carried me to the station. We got on the train. Three stops...Quite long enough, if the train in question is packed to the roof with rioting hens... The train was officially overcrowded. This means ( I listen carefully) that over 30 people were standing in each compartment.
Wild understatement...In the space between two compartments, I counted twenty-three full grown people, elbows in ears, ribs or groins, according to height. A baby was passed to safety, meaning into the actual compartment and maybe 50 more standing. Why on earth didn't they riot ? Pull the communications cord - if there still is one ? I complained bitterly.
A morning that should have been devoted to my personal welfare became a Black Hole of Calcutta/Kolkaret nightmare.
Just above the Siemens logo, near the doors, there's a warning...
Smile, you're on CCTV. Somebody said, Does Jamie Oliver know ?
Not funny, not really... There are very strict rules governingt live animal transport.
I blame all this Keep Calm and Carry On brainwashing. The North Atlantic recession is the result of greed and laziness. WWII ended in 1945. Years ago, visiting their Earthly Paradise*, my friends were amused, bought a few cards.
No longer funny, and, if an alien species is allowed to ask this question, cui bono ?
One mystery... I didn't actually see any hens on the train... Where were they ? People kept saying it was a hen-party... No Rhode Islands, no Wyandottes, no Marans... Two women threw their knickers at us. One wanted to stroke me.
(she won't try that again).
One wore a white veil (but no knickers, or so she claimed ) Two were being sick... Then it was our stop.
Fixing the Green car cost a lot of money and seriously endangered my peace of mind.
* Am I allowed to reveal where this is ? Probably not, so I won't...
(it would be rude and undemocratic to call them my staff. Untrue anyway, as I never pay them a penny, or £ or $$$ )
They're scared of losing their jobs, their hair, their breasts/French chicken fillets, and even their houses. Some weird idea that the Government, whoever they are, will get everybody over 45 to move out and live in a portacabin ?
( Extraordinary idea... I need to think about that one, surely the house in which I live is mine, not theirs ? And where are the boomerang kids supposed to go ? )
My poor sad friends are scared of flying, driving and catching trains. Boats sink, planes fall out of the sky, cars and trains crash. Planes and boats and trains, even if you reach your destination intact, all the other passengers have a deadly virus. Or they're en route to a hen/stag party. Personally, after just one experience of a train-load of drunken hens, last Friday evening, I'd rather take my chances with the deadly virus.
What was I, MagnifiCat, doing on a train, in the company of hens ?
Good question, and, as this is a No-secrets, complete Freedom of Information site, you can have an answer.
Like almost everything Green, the explanation is boring, time-wasting, inefficient and desperately inconvenient. Plus, my poor deluded friends were trying to kill a whole flock of birds with one stone.
(I don't mean the drunken hens. See below...)
The train was a last resort, and this is how it happened. Painfully Green, my friends have only one car. (guess the colour)
My private health care package includes a routine whole-body annual onceover, dentist, and all my jabs/shots, whatever you like to call them.
Was their journey really necessary ? Absolutely essential, I'd say. Taking the Servant of the Living God to visit her personal physician is a privilege and a duty. If you ask me, Green is a short for grief and misery. We couldn't just drive to the surgery, see my doctors ( note the plural) agree on my beauty, then drive calmly home.
Being Green is sheer insanity...
Saving petrol and/or the planet, we squeezed in the supermarket, the cobbler (top end of town, Green means no new shoes. Ever, ever again... )
Then the garage. (t'other end & wrong side of the one-way system)
New tyre ?
I know that look on their faces... I, MagnifiCat, am inscrutable. You can't read my face. I know every flicker, every sigh, every tear. Men in overalls looked at the Green car... They sighed too...
Told you this was boring...
Of course I objected, loudly. You simply cannot let them get away with this kind of thing. He stayed, sick and Green with worry. She carried me to the station. We got on the train. Three stops...Quite long enough, if the train in question is packed to the roof with rioting hens... The train was officially overcrowded. This means ( I listen carefully) that over 30 people were standing in each compartment.
Wild understatement...In the space between two compartments, I counted twenty-three full grown people, elbows in ears, ribs or groins, according to height. A baby was passed to safety, meaning into the actual compartment and maybe 50 more standing. Why on earth didn't they riot ? Pull the communications cord - if there still is one ? I complained bitterly.
A morning that should have been devoted to my personal welfare became a Black Hole of Calcutta/Kolkaret nightmare.
Just above the Siemens logo, near the doors, there's a warning...
Smile, you're on CCTV. Somebody said, Does Jamie Oliver know ?
Not funny, not really... There are very strict rules governingt live animal transport.
I blame all this Keep Calm and Carry On brainwashing. The North Atlantic recession is the result of greed and laziness. WWII ended in 1945. Years ago, visiting their Earthly Paradise*, my friends were amused, bought a few cards.
No longer funny, and, if an alien species is allowed to ask this question, cui bono ?
One mystery... I didn't actually see any hens on the train... Where were they ? People kept saying it was a hen-party... No Rhode Islands, no Wyandottes, no Marans... Two women threw their knickers at us. One wanted to stroke me.
(she won't try that again).
One wore a white veil (but no knickers, or so she claimed ) Two were being sick... Then it was our stop.
Fixing the Green car cost a lot of money and seriously endangered my peace of mind.
* Am I allowed to reveal where this is ? Probably not, so I won't...
Tuesday, 17 January 2012
Whenever I play with my cat
Magnificat 17/01/2012
Benedicite, omnia opera Domini, Domino ; laudate et superexultate eum in saecula...
Satisfied now ? Of course I know Latin (used to, they've gone very quiet lately)
This is what it means...
Bless the Lord, all ye works of the Lord, praise him and exult him above all things for ever...
Doesn't quite work, of course. Translation hardly ever does. Especially to music... Make that never, but you get the general idea.
I approve of the sentiment, because I am a work of the Lord. (possibly, if (see above) there really is a Lord)
I digress. Sorry... And, even with nine lives, I can't waste any more time on pointless speculation.
Fact : There is a God, and I'm a particularly beautiful proof of this indisputable fact.
Agreed ?
Evolution is also a fact, so banging on about it ad nauseam changes nothing and wastes ink, paper and time. No more neo-Darwinism, no encyclicals, no synods, or any other witless speculation. Including religion...
I'm off religion, for the rest of this particular life. Back to the day job. In times like these, I'm lucky to be in work at all....
My job ?
You can't have forgotten already. You have ? Short term memory problems ? Don't panic... It might not be straight to the grannie-bin and I wouldn't wish that wretched existence on anyone.
Much more likely, you weren't even trying to remember. Please make an effort, this is important....
(I don't mean to be rude. My mother, for the very short time I knew her, tried to teach me some manners.)
From the top, because pinning a name badge on my coat might be tricky...
Name : MagnifiCat
Job Title : Servant of the Living God.
Current Project : Counteracting the powers of darkness, and right now,
as you must have noticed, their name is legion.
(and what kind of grammar is that ?)
Though it has, at last, stopped raining, for
the first time in weeks. White frosts
are so much prettier,especially at midnight,
and more people might try to believe in God
if S/he would at least get the weather right.
Benedicite, omnia opera Domini, Domino ; laudate et superexultate eum in saecula...
Satisfied now ? Of course I know Latin (used to, they've gone very quiet lately)
This is what it means...
Bless the Lord, all ye works of the Lord, praise him and exult him above all things for ever...
Doesn't quite work, of course. Translation hardly ever does. Especially to music... Make that never, but you get the general idea.
I approve of the sentiment, because I am a work of the Lord. (possibly, if (see above) there really is a Lord)
I digress. Sorry... And, even with nine lives, I can't waste any more time on pointless speculation.
Fact : There is a God, and I'm a particularly beautiful proof of this indisputable fact.
Agreed ?
Evolution is also a fact, so banging on about it ad nauseam changes nothing and wastes ink, paper and time. No more neo-Darwinism, no encyclicals, no synods, or any other witless speculation. Including religion...
I'm off religion, for the rest of this particular life. Back to the day job. In times like these, I'm lucky to be in work at all....
My job ?
You can't have forgotten already. You have ? Short term memory problems ? Don't panic... It might not be straight to the grannie-bin and I wouldn't wish that wretched existence on anyone.
Much more likely, you weren't even trying to remember. Please make an effort, this is important....
(I don't mean to be rude. My mother, for the very short time I knew her, tried to teach me some manners.)
From the top, because pinning a name badge on my coat might be tricky...
Name : MagnifiCat
Job Title : Servant of the Living God.
Current Project : Counteracting the powers of darkness, and right now,
as you must have noticed, their name is legion.
(and what kind of grammar is that ?)
Though it has, at last, stopped raining, for
the first time in weeks. White frosts
are so much prettier,especially at midnight,
and more people might try to believe in God
if S/he would at least get the weather right.
Monday, 16 January 2012
Whenever I Play with my Cat .....
MagnifiCat
From this day forward, I make the rules... Understood ?
Are you sitting comfortably ? Then I'll begin...
My name is Cat. Short for Magnificat.
Magnificat anima mea Dominum. Et exaltavit spiritus meus in Deo',
In plain Latin, yes, of course I know what that means and no, even with my rudimentary Greek, it most definitely is not blasphemy.
I wouldn't dream of reviling God or anything sacred. Including Me.
The fact is, I'm beautiful. I'm a stunning, heart-stopping, totally wonderful achievement, and, unlike God, there's absolutely no doubt that I exist. If I scratch you, you'll bleed... Promise..
Which is, if you think about it, good news. It means you exist too.
If God really did make me, S/He did a magnificent job. If God didn't make me, no problem. I'm still here, still beautiful, still (trying to) be happy. Trust me, there really is no problem. I am.
Sometimes I think, sometimes I just am... Either way, me being me is important. Theologians, philosophers and Richard Dawkins waste time and forests, asking pointless questions about God or no God and why we're all here. I'm here to be me, and I have a very important job to do. Four, no, I miscounted, five people need me, perhaps more than they'll ever know.
In my kind of family, we don't bother with websites and national archives and all that rubbish. Only people who don't have any ancestors worth knowing need to look them up. Who do I think I am ? ... Me, of course, you're not listening... .I'll start again. I am Cat, short for Magnificat, lithe and sleek and beautiful. How often does Her Majesty the Queen scrap around online, wasting her life, trying to discover what her great-grandad did for a living ? *
That's called a rhetorical question. Doesn't she look wonderful...? So, of course, do I. Like Her Majesty, it's in my genes and I inherited a job for life. In a recession, this is always useful. Long moons ago, a great-great-great (better stop counting) uncle of mine was the Servant of the Living God. As his heiress**, it's my turn to counteract the powers of darkness, but I'm not quite sure where to start...
* Yes of course I know who he was. I'm quite good at history. Used to be, anyway, in a previous life.
* * Usually, inheritance is through the female. Cat law is guided by common sense. Inheritance through the eldest male was a freakishly stupid human choice, especially before DNA tests. Male primogeniture was imposed by ludicrous patriarchal societies and caused no end of trouble. Like Elizabeth and Victoria and our present gracious Queen, my great-great etc uncle Jeoffry was an exception. Litter after litter with not a single female, needs must, etc, but the Jeoffry experiment was a one-off.
16/01/2012
From this day forward, I make the rules... Understood ?
Are you sitting comfortably ? Then I'll begin...
My name is Cat. Short for Magnificat.
Magnificat anima mea Dominum. Et exaltavit spiritus meus in Deo',
In plain Latin, yes, of course I know what that means and no, even with my rudimentary Greek, it most definitely is not blasphemy.
I wouldn't dream of reviling God or anything sacred. Including Me.
The fact is, I'm beautiful. I'm a stunning, heart-stopping, totally wonderful achievement, and, unlike God, there's absolutely no doubt that I exist. If I scratch you, you'll bleed... Promise..
Which is, if you think about it, good news. It means you exist too.
If God really did make me, S/He did a magnificent job. If God didn't make me, no problem. I'm still here, still beautiful, still (trying to) be happy. Trust me, there really is no problem. I am.
Sometimes I think, sometimes I just am... Either way, me being me is important. Theologians, philosophers and Richard Dawkins waste time and forests, asking pointless questions about God or no God and why we're all here. I'm here to be me, and I have a very important job to do. Four, no, I miscounted, five people need me, perhaps more than they'll ever know.
In my kind of family, we don't bother with websites and national archives and all that rubbish. Only people who don't have any ancestors worth knowing need to look them up. Who do I think I am ? ... Me, of course, you're not listening... .I'll start again. I am Cat, short for Magnificat, lithe and sleek and beautiful. How often does Her Majesty the Queen scrap around online, wasting her life, trying to discover what her great-grandad did for a living ? *
That's called a rhetorical question. Doesn't she look wonderful...? So, of course, do I. Like Her Majesty, it's in my genes and I inherited a job for life. In a recession, this is always useful. Long moons ago, a great-great-great (better stop counting) uncle of mine was the Servant of the Living God. As his heiress**, it's my turn to counteract the powers of darkness, but I'm not quite sure where to start...
* Yes of course I know who he was. I'm quite good at history. Used to be, anyway, in a previous life.
* * Usually, inheritance is through the female. Cat law is guided by common sense. Inheritance through the eldest male was a freakishly stupid human choice, especially before DNA tests. Male primogeniture was imposed by ludicrous patriarchal societies and caused no end of trouble. Like Elizabeth and Victoria and our present gracious Queen, my great-great etc uncle Jeoffry was an exception. Litter after litter with not a single female, needs must, etc, but the Jeoffry experiment was a one-off.
16/01/2012
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