Some say that sullying a delicious glass of Scotch with either water or ice is a sacrilege worthy of flogging. My opinion is that I much prefer Irish whiskey (or even whisky) with my tuna melt, but every cat is different, dear ones, and we really need to concentrate on the wonderful news that NASA confirmed the presence of water on Mars. I knew all along, of course, even though, as a proud feline (and potential future sufferer of renal failure if I’m not careful) H20 is not my favourite natural substance. On second thoughts, and considering that sidebar comment about renals, schmeenals failing, whatever, I think I’ll skate on over to the ice-capades and pick up a slab of the good stuff. See you there, Major Tom, Love, Dr On Mars xox
Regarding Beowulf, I have to admit some sympathy for the monster, Grendel. Is that so wrong, to feel for the poor creature who was simply following his instincts? Hmmm, instincts. I smell barbecue – tuna barbecue. Sorry, but I must follow my instincts and crash that party. Speedy love to everyone, Last xxx
There’s something most wonderful about a language that allows for such variety of interpretation and misinterpretation, don’t you think? English: gotta love it, loathe it, lust after its every symbolic scratching, fair and lovely fellow fans. Enjoy new words today, get into dictionaries – I carried one everywhere as a youngster and have never regretted one single letter of our magnificent alphabet. Go you good thing. Love Last, oops, missed the comma. Love, Last, xxx
I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I had a lot of trouble with Moby Dick. Could be that I’m in need of spectacles. My favourite line is, of course, Call me Ishmael, as it has been for so many of us, especially those who love Roald Dahl’s Matilda. As a heretic, of course I turned to the 1956 film starring Gregory Peck. I saw it as a child oh so many decades ago, and my memory was one of awe and fear. However, a re-view convinced me to re-place it in the past so it can remain a classic. I suspect that my significant shortcomings with the novel are similar to the ten year gap between buying Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude and actually reading it. You just have to pick the right moment, you simply have to be ready for the story, and readiness cannot be rushed, fellow felines and others.
Love to all, Dr On Mars xxx, and a hug for whales everywhere