There, I’ll say it – black cats fancy themselves as superior to other cats. This is manifested in their silent aloofy aloofness. Next time you see a black cat, make friends with her or him, and who knows, you may move her or him on from ‘aloof’ to ‘benign’ or even ‘cuddlesomely noirish.’ Give him or her, or her or him a pat and a hearty invitation to your next tuna nosh-a-rama and bucket list share-a-thon. Invite me, too.
When I meditate, or engage in complex and nuanced yoga poses, I am invariably sleeping. Don’t knock it, it works; also, if you knock it, you’ll wake me up, and I will be cranky. Arguably, dreaming of such things is as effective as doing them, and who are we to say we are dreaming or we are real-ing? Hmmm? Now I must return to my weight-lifting – the 250kg snatch and beef jerky, shall we say?
We are really getting into, and onto, sculpture, here on Mars, and we hope you like it very much. Otherwise, well, like it anyway, there’s nothing to dislike, really, about modern sculpture. After all, who knows anything about it or why it even exists except to make us all feel calm and happy after a long, hard day at the solar-face (which is gradually replacing the coal-face, though you will work no less hardly, harder, hard, like very squashed coal). There are diamonds here somewhere.
Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Wait, yes, it’s over for another year, and Chris Froome has won. Again. For the third time. In a row.
Deja vu all over again, or what, fellow cycle people, or not? I watch it for the recipes, as I’ve mentioned many times, which is just as well, because at least they change from one year to the next. And I’m hoping that there’ll be a lovely and luscious tuna bake from Dusseldorf, home of 2017’s Grand Depart. It is, after all, a city on a river (the Rhine), so there must be tuna around there somewhere.
Meanwhile and P.S., thanks to John Mortimer, creator of our beloved Rumpole and the unforgettable ‘Chateau Thames Embankment.’ Cheers.
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.
No, I confess, I have never attended a Star Wars film event, though I have watched the series. Given the dimensions of some of the costumes and the placement of feet upon unsuspecting felines’ tails, justified my reticence surely is. I have one simple question: are we certain that Darth is Luke’s father? Are we really, fretting fans? Just asking. Respectfully and with Leia adoration, Last, xxx