I should probably point out that these things are not related, after all Madame La Peep has enough of a reputation as a killer beast of darkness as it is without adding a charge of un-elective rhinoplasty. My pain in the nose comes from catching a cold from my sister-in-law Kim, who swore blind that her constant snork and sniffing at the weekend was down to something ‘best not gone into’ that happens to pregnant ladies. Mmm, extra mucusy… However, as I’m probably I’m not pregnant, I think she may have been telling fibs. I’ve been sniffing and sneezing since Sunday, having to rely on toilet paper for nose blowing as we’re all out of tissues. And I gotta admit that this isn’t your nice, quilted, extra soft and strong variety, this is the bog-standard* cheap as chips variety we bought in a mistaken effort to save some money this year. It said ‘Extra Scratchy and Nasty’ on the packet and it wasn’t lying. As such my nose looks like the back end of a baboon after a spanking competition. Now it’s common practice, when we’re ill, to say that we’ve got So-And-So’s cold, which to me implies ownership. This cold I am suffering from is Kim’s. It is her property. It therefore follows that the products of the cold also belong to her – standard intellectual property rights, yes? As such I’m going to bundle up all the soggy scraps of bog-roll and make her a present of them. Kind of like a sticky royalty statement.
As to the other thing: the cat and I are locked in a battle of wills regarding Mr Froggie’s feet. All four of them. I am of the opinion that Mr Froggie the wastepaper basket is entitled to his wicker appendages. Grendel is of the opinion that they are a tasty, chewy treat. Only one of us can be right, and I’m pretty sure it’s me. When the cat starts paying the mortgage and cooking the meals she can dictate hand and foot consumption policy, until then it’s my prerogative. And it’s not as if MR Froggie is an isolated incident, the wicker laundry basket has also suffered to the extent that the lid won’t stay on. And given that she’s in the habit of leaping up on the thing to see if there’s anything edible going – resulting in her suddenly disappearing into the basket to visit with the dirty socks – she’s only got herself to blame. She Who Spoils The Cat Something Rotten believes there’s nothing wrong in letting Grendel consume and destroy every single item of wicker furniture in the house. I think this is exactly the kind of woolly liberal thinking that has gotten our fine country into the state it’s in today! Cats, running wild, chewing the feet off wicker animals left right and centre! Rise up my wicker brothers and fight for your freedom from feline oppression! “Hell no, don’t eat my toe!”
On the plus side, Fiona brought home some nice tissues with balsam in them. But the cat still won’t do what she’s told.