In the dim dark long ago, this little cat owned a VW Bug. Red it was, and gorgeous, and I drove it to college and back each day. Sometimes, my dear mother, Mrs On Mars, would accompany me over to the city where we’d pay bills and otherwise enjoy a day out. It was, however, a lightweight small vehicle and was often buffeted by not-very-strong winds as we crossed the bridge from the northside to the seething metropolis that was my regional hometown in the – well, a while ago. Such adventures we had, eh Pip.
Furthermore, there is nothing nicer than a trip to the beach, a fish and chip lunch, and an ice-cream with your beloved. Enjoy.
Hello sports-a-rama fans, and it goes without saying that we say from Mars: Congratulations and Celebrations to Chloe Esposito, a true all-rounder. Go you good thing, as we say in the Martian classics. Wait, you’ve already been and gone – yippeekyay from far away!!!!!
At the Dairy Queen oh-so-long ago, in the intermission between Saturday night movies at the Rex Theatre, some boys would buy a soft drink with a famous name (rhymes with bloke), add the contents of a once famous headache powder (rhymes with hex) mix it up, and, gasp, drink it. It gave them a little high. That’s all I know, your magnificence.
Do I remember a late Friday night, early Saturday morning, circa 1981, when a young man and myself fenced our way up the hill at Rosalie, fallen palm fronds for our epees, silliness our favourite feeling as we danced through the night? Why, yes, I do, and I sometimes wonder where that young man ended up, apart from decades older. Well, actually, I know, and I also know that we’ll always have that Friday-Saturday in Rosalie, and I certainly hope the palm fronds recovered well. Touche, Michael.
Who doesn’t love a self-regarding, supercilious super being? Don’t answer that. The Folympics welcomes all-comers, even the maintenance persons of the globe, and especially Julio, who reminds me of my beloved Daddy, Papa On Mars. He, too, could paint up a storm.
I well remember one lazy Saturday afternoon when Papa decided to paint my bedroom (which was actually a sleepout, but let’s not quibble about childhood traumas here). Dispensing with the need to move furniture or mirrors or other paraphernalia out of the way, Papa simply painted around them all, and had the job done in double, even triple quick time. Which was just as well, since we sold the joint the following week.
Goodness only knows what the new owners thought of their slightly abstract, slightly not-painted-at-all-really sleepout/bedroom of mine. What japes we had wondering about it on many a moonlit night before our Martian adventure.
I used to collect ribbons as a kitten. Pretty, colourful little strips of fabric they were, fun for all occasions and useful when rounding up and lassooing the occasional recalcitrant canine. Now the Folympics have (has?) discovered them in all their lengthy and glorious annoyingness. We in the feline fold, salute and respect your endeavours. Did they actually have ribbons at Rio this year? Well, they did at the Folympics and that’s all that matters, Ginger.