How not to be a Royal....

Nemo me impune lacessit

Bernard . Not the patron saint of cats...

Locked out syndrome

Of my own house. Which stinks. Masked people stagger, bodies fall, the ground heaves, there's a strange ringing in my ears... Shouting, tears, slammed doors.... What the %^&*(_£"  is going on ?

 I don't speak English well - not my first language... but I get the gist of it...
Very old acronym ... DIY.   In all sane households, this was replaced long ago by GSI
Get Someone In.... Pay whatever they ask. You know it makes sense...
 Builders are gentlemen. Som of them are even ladies.  Divorce will cost you every devalued penny left in the bank...


And now, at last,  may I get back to where I was ?   Please ?

quis custodiet ipsos custodes ?

Magnificat


What I knew, and what I've discovered since...

For six easy, milky, mewing and purring weeks,  my mother  was my lifeline. So any talk about love is pointless, meaningless.
Thinner, weaker and hungrier every day, she had no choice. Even her  own body  wasn't really her own. The man was always sketching, colouring, writing, selling my mother and her many kittens, over and over again.  Cats do sell, even to the vilest people.  ( even fat white fluffy ones, the ugliest kind of all)
In publishing terms, we're a genre, and a guaranteed easy market too...
(Some cultures have issues with dogs.) 
True, the ' Church' had issues with cats, but the Church ( allegedly Holy, allegedly Roman) doesn't count.

Older and painfully wiser now, I know my mother was the man's creature, his prisoner, his Trilby, his gravy train...
Every year, kittens and more kittens, every year, books and yet more books. Books were only the edge of it.
First with his woman and then, after she left, on his own,  the man was  a fantasist, a myth-maker, on to a nice little earner. My  thin little mother and her many, many kittens, made him a very nice living.
Like most serial abusers, he had a type.
The artist and writer, as he called himself,  paraded my mother's mere ordinariness, sneered at Orientals, Russians, Persians, Abyssinians, Birmans, Rag dolls and every other different kind of cat...
     
 Like Beatrix Potter's Mrs Tabitha Twitchit and Tom Kitten,  his cats were mere English  moggies, sharing his enchanting cottage and stuffing his many bank accounts.
He didn't know - how could he, abusing her so shamefully - that my mother was the Servant of the Living God, and I, her only surviving daughter, would inherit.
 He sold the books, the paintings, the mugs, stationery, t-shirts, the whole crazy logo package. In his dreams, this joker wants to be bigger than Miss Kitty


That question ?   The one I put last time....  Pretentiously given in Latin ? ( I was rubbish at Latin)
Last time I had even five minutes to spare on navel-gazing blogging about My Early Life,  it was the present tense version...


Who's in charge of our so-called lords and masters, aka They ? 


Where I live, where you live, the correct answer is always depressing :

They are.   

 And in future ?   Especially if they've perverted the course of justice ?


Quis custodiet ipsos custodes ?  =   Will anything change, ever ?

Or will they stay in post,  secure in their public sector pensioned  so-called jobs ?


Clue ....
 If anyone dares to complain,  state-appointed guards  always investigate themselves....

Guaranteed foolproof.  They win, every time.

So far, but I live in hope....

Locked out syndrome

February 7th - March 16th.

Silence...
No, I most certainly did not get bored and give up.
I was locked out, my identity and my entire personal history challenged and rejected, citizenship and my very right to exist questioned and found wanting.

I was even asked who I was ???
A half sibling ? So what ? Half siblings claim at least one shared parent.
Was I some other impostor and/or pretender or even bone fide bastard ?

The Church used to mind its own business about matters which
were not its business. (including who goes to bed with whom)
As for the State... It should keep better records, less susceptible to corruption

And the little matter of locking me out ?

Happens all the time, if you happen to be a cat...
Window sills look unfinished without a cat, hunched and meditating on the crime committed against him or her, by whoever is keeping that window firmly shut.

Throughout most of the recent lock out, I was trying to get a straight answer to a straight question

Quis custodet ipsos custodes ?
Answer came there none, many times. even when the Truth Game level moved several notches higher. ( when the opponent is supposed to tell the Truth, no matter what)
They didn't. Instead, they simply upgraded the Untruth.

So I tried again, putting a different and probably even more annoying question...

What is Truth ?
Jesting (allegedly) Pilate didn't get an answer.

Neither did I.