I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.
Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle.
"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked.
"What?"
"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."
I need to know some things, Satan Claws. I do not understand what Christmouse Carols are. The one first, why do you sing Christmouse songs about ladies named Carol, when you could sing about cats. The one second, you sing SCARY songs at Christmouse! Why would you go away with a stranger, when they do not even have a crib (which is very comfy) for a bed??? That is just dumb. Also. This is a tip, because I like you, and your reindears are funny – do not give away to anyone presents. NO PRESENTS TO ANYONE EXCEPT OSKIES, AND MAYBE KATO. You do not need to give kings things like gold and my purr, that is just wrong! It is not frank good sense, it is frank bad sense. They have enough stuffs.
Being human, being a member of Team Homo Sapiens; well, it’s just too much like hard work. In fact, it isn’t just like hard work – it is work. To run as primates of the family Hominidae, the aforementioned homo sapiens (although the sapiens is a misnomer, if you ask me) – is the equivalent of getting up, showering, throwing down an Egg McMuffin, and clocking into the most inane, drivel-driven workplace in the history of drivel-driven workplaces –
Perhaps you, my dear readers, simply by my saying the words 'marketing guru', are wiser than I, and would have known to run for the hills, screaming. Yes. Well. I didn't, and I suffered the consequences. Venetia suffered also, listening to the hideousness of my hysterical laughter, interspersed with "oh dear GOD" and brief spurts of dry retching.
Squishy got off the phone and she started yelling at me, some words I didn't understand about using the interwebs for education, not random surfing, and not being allowed on it unsupervised at any time, did I understand.
I did not understand, because for a start, why would I use the interwebs for surfing? I don't like water, I'm a cat.
“Four be the things I am wiser to know: Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe. Four be the things I’d been better without: Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt. Three be the things I shall never attain: Envy, content, and sufficient champagne. Three be the things I shall have till I die: Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.”
— Dorothy Parker, The Complete Poems of Dorothy Parker
There will no doubt be a wealth of blog posts, articles and features coming out today and tomorrow on what a fabtastic year 2014 has been and the amazing things we have to look forward to in the year to come, starting with the obligatory resolutions to drink less, eat less and generally behave less atrociously than we have for the past 365 days.
As I have recently watched my cat prove to be a more popular author than myself, I am not precisely filled with the spirit of the New Year's Eve Fairy. As for resolutions... meh. They last approximately a week, the fridge is filled with enough fruit and roughage to kill fifteen elephants, and then the urge to grease me up Lunch Lady Doris kicks in, an emergency run for hot chips is made, and a blackened mass of dead carrots is scraped out of the vegetable container two months later.
Forgive my cynicism. Again, coping with the fact that people are calling for a cat to take over my blog.
2014 has held significant challenges. It hasn't, despite General Melchett's indecipherable excitement, been all Flossy the Rabbit pie and Château Lafite. Dear friends and loved ones have suffered craptacular things. Sadness has been a very big part of the year, and unfortunately 2015 is going to hold some of the same for The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant and myself.
On the other hand, or apparently, as it is soon to be known, paw, there is great joy on the horizon. Osky, The Man, and myself all get to celebrate something pretty spesh early in the new year. Who knows? That pretentious puss may even be a flower cat, simply because I know how much he'd hate it.
I hope you have a wonderful year to come, and to help you along, here are my Anti-Resolutions for 2015. May you live by them, and love, laugh and have fun and make a difference by them. I certainly intend to, and I'll have a lot more time to do so, because I won't have to dedicate time to writing anymore.
See how you go trying to type by yourself, Spy Cat.
The 'Be Resolute In Your Anti-Resolutions' List of 2015:
Drink GOOD champagne. All the time. It's beneficial to your health. Promise.
Tell the people you love that you love them. Don't hold back.
Get a pet. Look after that pet. Hug that pet.
Stand up and make a difference, whether it's to your community or your country.
Care about grammar!
Don't take yourself so seriously. Seriously.
Repeat number 2. It's really, really important. Because they won't always be there, and you should appreciate their worth.
It's not a big list. They aren't stupid resolutions, because you know what? They aren't things that you know in your heart are going to be non-deliverable after a finite period. You can resolve to live in a way that gives you and the people around you joy, and these things definitely do that. Love. Hug. Give your pet a hand on the keyboard as they become a bestseller. Laugh, mainly at yourself. Care about your grammar. Give a damn about the quality of what you throw down your throat.
Happy New Year.
Tally-ho, pip pip and Bernard's quite possibly your uncle.
Before you start reading this blog, you should be advised that it isn’t anything to do with The Village People, or for that matter The Pet Shop Boys – although you may, after reading the title, end up with said song stuck in your head for hours.
No, this is about how, despite a certain person – that would be me – stating very early on this year something along the lines of ‘I am never moving again, hell will freeze over before I ever pick up another Port-A-Robe, I am going to stay here until I go mouldy’ yada, yada, yada...
I suddenly find myself sitting amongst the chaos of a new house in Perth.
Sorry – make that a new home.
This would be courtesy of fate, kismet, whatever you wish to call it, which appeared some time ago in the shape of a person who looks vaguely like David Tennant (not the only reason I find him irresistible – really) and has impelled a move, sadly not by Tardis, across state borders and time zones.
Many people would not have been aware I was even contemplating said move, let alone that I have made it. This is because it was personal, and complex, and fuelled by reasons which were hard to discuss – and yes, included the fact that long distance love, whilst sounding intensely romantic, is in actuality intensely difficult and frustrating.
So Osky the Spy and I shrugged our collective shoulders and started packing. Well, I did – he exercised his right to use his considerable vocal power.
I think the lambs have stopped screaming.
On this bright and sunny (very early) Perth morning, after an exciting Saturday night spent with the drill, a glass of wine or three and – not surprisingly as a result – colourful language as we realised we had stuffed up the IKEA instructions for the third time, I am tempted to turn said new home into a Zen temple. It would mean no unpacking! Plates – we don’t need plates! Glasses – meh. Doona covers – oh, hang on, that’s my favourite... and that’s my favourite too... and that one. Bugger it. I like stuff too much to be a minimalist queen.
Perth doesn’t know what’s hit it. I suspect the Person Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant doesn’t either.
But he does know how much I love him.
I wouldn't move to the wild, wild West for just any Time Lord.
But I will not be going for the Force. Or the Eagles.
