Here on Mars, not a lot flows freely, unless, of course, you go to the sauce, and the um, source. So, anyway, there is much to be said for a pour of viscous – but not too viscous – vivacity in the form of a delicious anonymous sauce with one’s tuna toastie. Dinner time!!!
I have decided after many years of research, both toasted and toastless, that sourdough is, how can I put this, overrated. That is all.
Will Leonard’s wish come true? Let us hope for his sake that it does, because if you happen to be so lucky as to stumble across a Well of Wish, and you are as challenged as Leonard, my suggestion is that you wish it dry before it wishes itself away from the clueless and the generally dopey. Good luck, friends, and may I wish you all the wellest of wish-fulfilled lives.
As I have often remarked to my beloved siblings – the twins, the triplets, the quads and the quins (the darling little quins!), it matters not how we make our individual ways in life, we will always be feline and family, and proud to be our mother’s kittens. That is all.
It all depends on your perspective, I guess, though I, personally, have always counselled any young cats of my acquaintance to make their own way without the aid of artificial musculature, the feline being a most perfect being in any case, as we all know for sure and for certain and without hesitation. As Mark Twain noted, if a human could be crossed with a cat, it would improve the human but ‘deteriorate’ the cat. Amen to that and pass the tuna flummery.
Malachy is a simple chap who wants only to fit in, wherever he may roam. Mostly, he prefers the comfort of his square, but just occasionally, occasionally, on a very casual day when the irregular rears its’ fascinating head, sometimes he responds. On those occasions, he is a wild creature of the freedom trail, or at least the temptations of the circular lazy susan.
The magic of music is such that even the poor, tuneless citizens among us can delude themselves into thinking they could possibly, maybe, perhaps, if everyone else dropped out at the last minute, win their Eisteddfod category in a canter, or a crotchet, or even a semibreve. We’ll leave that to the experts while I find a spare can of tuna for morning tea – tee hee.
Or should that read ‘Cown’ around, dear reader? I hear you groaning, so let us proceed. I don’t really know what happened after this image was captured, but given Boozo’s propensity to tempt fate, it wouldn’t surprise me to find him dishevelled and blaming everyone else for his sudden demise somewhere in the remote North Polar Cap here on beautiful Mars.
Reading between the lines isn’t that difficult, usually. You just have to squint a little, though, of course, that is all predicated on the idea that you know you have to read between the lines in the first place, and that, of course, must precede squinting at those lines, and so on, and there’s always another bus, isn’t there?
Marcel had always taken his oath of mimey silence seriously, but the day he happened upon D’Arcy Delaney’s warm welcome tested even his steadfast allegiance to a rather silly rule. The fact that D’Arcy, like his forebears before him and even befive and besix those forebears, had no physical ability to feel the heat, did not help on this occasion, or on the many occasions previously when his smithy’s shop had burnt down.
Last Cat on Mars 