Yes, fellow Martians, felines and others, birthdays may be pagan in origin, or something – is there anything Professor Google doesn’t know? – but there’s cake, and your peeps, and even others, tend to be kinder on your ‘special’ day. Of course, they may not be kinder to you exactly, but there’s something in the air, don’t you agree, and it isn’t all pollen-based.
In any case, here isa special hello and happy day of days to our fellow Martian, Emma. May the wishing well of excellent occasions on which to eat cake, or cheesecake if you’re very lucky, bestow its every blessing upon you.
The lesson for all of us here is never to volunteer to hold the oars, not even for a second. Splinters are the least of your worries when you’re facing very strong headwinds, and space junk up to wazoo. Don’t say you weren’t warned, friends and others.
It only remains for us to make a booking and turn up for Chef Francesca’s delicious tuna-themed slices.
Well I remember a little pizza joint just around the corner from my alma mater, the august and september-y University of Queensland, in Hawken Drive. It was truly a dive, because you had to dive down below street level, with the aid of a set of stairs as I recall, or perhaps simply a well-timed roll, in order to enter its very Bohemian portal – well, it seemed extremely Bohemian to a little cat from Central Queensland’s sticks still trying to find her city paws. Great pizza though, and drinks. Oh, the drinks. One was far too many, friends, and, as usual, a hundred more were never quite enough. Good times … the little I well remember of them.
I have a lovely, luscious, yellow banana every single day, viewers and readers, and others of that ilk. Mmm, banana – a simile for perfect fruit, yeah …
Yes, the banana can travel anywhere at a moment’s notice, fully suited up, ready for anything from biting and nibbling to slicing and dicing to mashing and smashing.
Never mind the avocado toast, friends, try some fork-squashed Lady Fingers on Sourdough, or even Happydough, with a soupcon of cinnamon sugar and a teeny, tiny squeeze of original lemon juice, just a few citrus-y drops. You will love it, it will love you. That’s all.
They’re always on the lookout for new ventures, they just lack the capital to convert them to heavenly success. But don’t feel too sorry for them, fellow viewers; after all, they have a very red canoe, and the possibility of members of the largely adorable Leporidae family visiting sometime soon. D’Arcy and Anthony – gotta love ’em, or not – oh, why not, harmless they are, and as cute as the Leporidaes (yes, the furry, mammalian Leporidaes from Edam-on-Rye, or was it Bungles-Upon-Bungles)? Or, was it, Rabbitproof-Under-Fence?
The wonderful people at the European Space Agency in Darmstadt, Germany are a bit sad, but hopeful, just as I am hopeful for my shiny (and rather glary) new friend, Schiaparelli lander’s recovery. It’s touch and go, and yes, the chocolate bars helped, but you can never be certain on the Red planet, especially with all these jostling space-o-nauts scurrying around and recklessly stealing tuna pies.
In the meantime, my dearest Earth peeps, keep dreaming of Martian playing fields just as I dream of my feline ancestors who lived a mere furball’s toss up the A5 from Darmstadt, in Frankfurt am Main. Many are the imaginary plates of tuna-wurst helpfully digested with a litre or three of catnip schnaps I’ve shared with my great-great grandparents, Charles Gustav and Margaret (or Meowgaret, as she was known in the family). Ah, those could have been the days but for pesky physics. Dream on.
I don’t know D’Arcy or Anthony personally, but the fact that they exchanged their spaceship here on Mars with some rogueish southerner from the Medusae Fossae Formation seems to follow a family pattern. Two of my actual friends, Cy and Clark, have already committed to the Red Canoe Cult – you can check them out enjoying a little angling in the Hale crater. They bear a remarkable resemblance to these two soon-to-be fishin’ fools.