I once lived in a tiny house – turned out it was a cardboard box my loving Earthling servants had saved from their latest Amazon delivery for my amusement.
It had everything a feline could need: matching scratchworthy sofa, bed, and sofabed; climbing curtains in ancient, priceless Oriental silk, and a constant supply of tuna bites.
Alas, the Martian atmosphere played havoc with its recyclable doors and walls, and now my tiny house has renewed itself as a rustic red welcome mat at the entrance flap to my far more palatial Mars Manor where the tuna constantly bites.
Actually, cats of all kinds are very fussy, and it’s unlikely that our friends in this episode are anything but fastidious. Therefore, fret not, humans, the jetty’s bipeds will survive, and thrive, as all four of them wobble off in the SS π or Godot for a lovely day at the beach. Which reminds me, gotta run, the tuna rocket’s just arrived.
(P.S.: Spoiler alert: if you happen to be waiting for Godot to arrive, don’t – he embezzled all sorts of funds (plus a few lamingtons) during the GFC of ’09 (unrelated to the Great Feline Carnival of ’09) and was last seen 40 kilometres west of Wherearewevillle demanding change for a $7 note).
The thing about the banana is that it’s the perfect fruit. It can go anywhere at a second’s notice. It’s a lovely colour whether ripe or unripe. It can be ready for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, or any snack in between. While felines may not be totally enamoured of the curvy yellow handful of peelworthy goodness (though many are), they appreciate nature’s creativity, and understand that literary types, both humanoid and monkeyoid, are constantly inspired by its presence. Especially with oats and honey, and whipped cream and jelly, and oh, rice cakes, toast, vegemite, jam, curd, Mrs On Mars undoubtedly delicious banana cream pie, etcetera. And the odd tuna bake. Very odd.
Remember when your mother made boiled fruit cake for Christmas? Perhaps she still does. And my lovely mother, Mrs On Mars, was, and is, a dab paw at producing the most delicious of boiled tuna fruit cakes for all of the wee Martians in the neighbourhood. A little red-dusty, but delicious, and Mars-ish if not more-ish.
As for St. Olaf and Meerecatt Meallworme, they’ve come to an arrangement: a block-buster straight-to-video mega-classic misinterpreted epic fail called Jaws, Paws, Claws, Bores, and Laws, and Another Bloody War: The Umpire Strikes Back. Look for it at your local streaming-eyes online time-waster, or not.
There are nine – that’s 9 – creative ideas currently at large in the world, up from 7 a mere twenty years ago. I think the Interwebz have had a little something to with that relatively large increase in the numbers. I’d work out the percentage, but I keep running out of toes.
The trick with the Super Nine, as they’re called, is in how an artist decides to use them in ever more ingenious and You-Tube-Virally ways. Modest though he is, credit is certainly due to Burly Barry McBardly-Bard for his enormous contribution to all things artistic, and recycled for that matter. And his great big orange truck full of, er, stuff. Her name’s Performia Faultymuch, by the way – the truck, that is (of the Somerset & Maugham Faultymuches, whatever that means). Keep an eye out for Performia (if your eyes are that acrobatic) in your street. She gets around, you know.
When I was a very small cat, I remember being placed upon a grand piano one evening in the games room of my Aunt Felicia’s pub. Luckily for me, the lid was down. Everybody was drunk and, with one minor slip of the paw, a kitten could have easily ended up as catgut, or worse, in that very large musical instrument.
I was exhorted to sing by all and sundry (the sundry being a couple of passing pub rats up from the cellar for the night), though I stood there in my flannelette pajamas (Shrank’s brand, for those in the know) and red and white chenille dressing gown, hardly appropriate attire for a debut concert.
I don’t remember if I sang, or not, but I think a lovely evening was had by all (and sundry), and it was arguably the only time in my life that I knew what it felt like to be that tall. That tallish, then.
Or one might even say, especially good old ‘Z,’ toiling away there at the end of the alphabet, never complaining, just zigging and zagging around as though it was the commonest letter ever.
No airs and graces for ‘Z’, no indeedy, particularly as there’s no ‘z’ in either airs or graces. So many silly jokes, so little time, so little patience. Never mind. Go well, friends, and enjoy all the scrumptious letters of our superb language, especially those that create syzygy. Treat yourself to a syzygy viewing sometime soon, just because.