If only the curators had included a ‘Don’t Bloody Touch The Silver New Something’ sign, Claudius – a law-abiding fellow who wanted only to be told what to do every minute of every day (why else, after all, did he join the army) – would have enjoyed his accidental cultural jaunt, free of any useful thoughts at all. And don’t worry about Strawberry, the cow, Claudius is vegetarian.
How about those wolves, eh? Predatory, hungry, famished really, but, you know, prepared to wait for the Wolffee Treats to be distributed as an appetizer. And you wonder why we feline types tend to avoid most cross-species friendships (especially the canine), except for the human servant variety, as you yourselves encourage, dudes and friends on the third rock. And, see, technology – always a few bicycle rotations ahead of the homo sapiens brain matter. Never mind.
My point, and I do have one, is that most felines avoid pointy things like the proverbial plague. You know, claws, fangs, those sharp bits when the toast is a little burnt – they can really lacerate the tongue and inside cheeks. Also, people who point me the wrong way to the tuna festival are the worst of all and I shall take my revenge – what? no, that wasn’t me, it was my evil twin, Second Last Cat On Mars. Calmer now, pointiness in its place, tuna on the way with Martian Eats: It’s Here or It’s There, or It’s Free.
Here on Mars there isn’t a lot of call for gears – the dust tends to gum them up, but gear sculptures, now there’s a lovely thing. Also, we like our sundowners, although we tend to have them indoors away from the dust and redness, and things that make us testy, like the temperature (too hot, and too cold, really, for a koala bear, let alone a feline bear). Other than that, cheers, friends, and bottoms up, for Cissy Fwoppingham-Smythe is already breathless for her next flagon.
My old friend, Brigid, simply loves geometry, so she was a sitting duck for the imitation game, wasn’t she? Yes, she was. And what could be lovelier than imitating your own namesake’s symbol? I’ll tell you what could be lovelier – a plate of tuna fancies in the shape of a St Brigid’s Cross, of course. What else? Well, eating them all is what else. Excuse me, I hear some fancies calling.
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.
You know when you just don’t know what you feel like for lunch? Sometimes you feel like a movie star, sometimes you feel like a baker, or even a truck driver. Ignore those feelings and get into bread, bread with anything on it at all. Okay, not yucky things like – well, I won’t say because I don’t want to insult the gourmands among you who may like those yucky things. Go ahead, buy a baguette and go wild.