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.
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