“If you give me any more trouble, I shall visit you in the small hours and put a bat up your nightie.”
Got a lovely card from Brenda, the lady who has taken him on board. He’s doing fine, attacking Christmas wrapping paper, sleeping on the bed and generally being spoiled rotten.
Oh, and he’s been named …
… wait for it …
Mr Bowjangles.
Eeek.
It’s a good thing he’s a cat with no natural dignity whatsoever, ’cause the neighbourhood cats are so gonna to take the piss out of him!
Which is why, when R. read out the news item about the man in Iowa who had a really bad Christmas Eve …
http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5g9gStRKQJjMUnXZKjiCA-7kOPqWAD8TP8OQ00
… my reaction was to shout: “But what the hell was he doing dropping clogs down a septic tank? Was he clog-dancing?”
“I think in this case,” intoned R wearily,” the word clog referred to a blockage.”
I’m from Lancashire. Clogs are clogs where I grew up …
http://flickr.com/photos/12246153@N08/
including Oban, the QE2, a graveyard and some piccies of the moggy!
… because our foster kitten, the Benign Ginger Dictator, has now found a lovely new home over in Gourock. I’m very pleased. But I do miss the patter of his thundering great paws …
I’ve got a bike for Christmas, so nyaaah! It’s a proper old-fashioned sit-up-and-beg with three speeds and a lovely cheerful bell, and I’m dead chuffed. However …
(a) There are a lot of nice hills in Dunoon. Excellent for freewheeling down in a joyous and carefree fashion.
(b) Ditto the above. It’s an absolute bugger to get said bike and unfit human back up.
(c) There is no stereo on a bike. Chiz chiz.
(d) There is no ashtray on a bike. Design flaw, I think!
Apart from all that, I am having a very nice time zipping down hills and wheezing back up again.
In other news: the moggy (still nameless) remains in residence, although he has a little less to wash these days, what with having had His Bits Seen To. He’s all proud and grown-up and has been known to set paw outside (except when it’s raining, naturally), and is only mildly unnerved by passing seagulls. And he has managed to remove his collar, in traditional cat manner, but hasn’t yet caught on to the idea of hiding it somewhere inaccessible. He plays with it, instead, and the consequent jingling of the bell renders him back in harness (“I am not a number! I am a free cat!”) fairly rapidly.
Hey, and it’s Christmas next week! Hurrah!
Over at “The Froth“, something Christmassy and rather lovely!
Terry Pratchett diagnosed with Alzheimers. This is just wrong …
http://inhome.rediff.com/movies/2007/dec/13terry.htm
The major problem with “Beowulf”, as far as I can see, is that Ray Winstone, whilst spending a lot of the film sonorously intoning a la Maximus Oojamaflop in “Gladiator”, occasionally drops right back into propah Sarf London. In short, he sounds like Phil Mitchell on numerous occasions, and it makes keeping a straight face really rather difficult.
Kept expecting him to offer to take Grendel “ahtside for a slap”.
Dreamed last night that someone presented me with an octopus tentacle. In a box.
Serves me right for going to see “Beowulf”. Bloody weird film.