It’s the New Year.
I asked the cats what their resolutions would be.
Zeuss said he intended to become more ‘Corporate’ he
added that this would “enable him to facilitate sexy
supply chains”.
Grommart and Sticky looked at him blankly.
Flossom,
who was lounging in a rather obscene manner, flat on her back
in a spot of sun, yawned, “This year, will be The Year
Of Flossom MacFearsome”, she said and stretched,
then continued, “and as the House Deity, all offerings
will be accepted, and digested in an appropriate manner”.
Zeuss looked at her, his big blue eyes wide with concentration, “So
I take it,” he said, “that this would enable you
to cultivate innovative partnerships amongst the feline community,
leading to an eventual high-end Fat Cat syndrome”.
Flossom glared at him, “what the?” she started, “I’m
sorry”, Zeuss interrupted, “perhaps you meant you
would be the House Diety, in which case, I think we could work
out a user centric model which would enable a gross weight
loss from your large end..”
I felt it time to interrupt, “Zeuss”, I said, “perhaps
you could make your New Year resolution, something we can all
understand, like, being NICE to Flossom for example”.
He squinted up at me, “I hear what you are saying...” he
said.
JAN 2nd
Brent,
my husband, has recently returned from a business trip to
the UK.
He brought back a Man-Cold and a very nice book. He sat on
the couch looking miserable, “probably Bird Flu”,
he said mournfully.
Then he kindly passed his Man-Cold on to me. It wiped me out
for Christmas and My Mother’s 80th Birthday. I lay weakly
on the couch, accepting medicinal brandy and preparing to die. “Probably
Bird Flu”, said Brent cheerfully.
Now, it seems, it is going round like Pass the Parcel, My
Mother, who disappeared with her sister (The Aunt Jen) for
a rollicking adventure down South for a few days, sent me a
text – “STEEL YOURSELVES”, she texted, “I
HAVE A STINKER OF A COLD”.
(There’s no such thing as abbreviated text for My Mother)
“Probably…” began Brent, to be promptly
silenced by a steely glare from me.
JAN
3rd
My Mother arrived back. She didn’t look too bad and she
looked even better after a stiff Brandy.
“Ahh” she said, looking around for something to
organise. Brent ducked.
She cast her beady eye on the cat bowls, neatly lined up on
the kitchen floor. Open for business.
“I see you’ve got those Death Traps out again”,
she said perkily assessing their organisational potential.
Last time she was here, she managed to reorganise the kitchen
cupboard, the laundry and her bedroom wardrobe.
I’m worried because there isn’t a lot left to organise,
I’d thought she was going to actually be sick with this
flu. “You can’t keep me down with something as
trifling as that” she said happily waving her empty Brandy
glass at me.
She needs to be kept occupied, the equilibrium of the planet
may well depend on it.
JAN4th
Brent, My Mother and I went for a Tiki Tour around Rangiora.
We looked at all the posh new houses. I drove.
My Mother said I drove with Style and Panache. “Did you
hear that Brent?” I said, “My Mother says I drive
with Style and Panache”.
“Really?” said Brent, “and here was I thinking
you were driving with Brent and Dorothy”.
JAN 5th
D.I.
Zeuss is back. He came in early this morning, fresh as a
daisy and full of importance. There was a suspicious bulge
in his stomach and blood on his fur. He sat on the arm of
the chair next to my Mother and preened himself.
“Apprehended an overweight Hare”, he blared, when
he had finished his ablutions.
“You can’t apprehend a Hare for being overweight,” I
said.
“All right then,” said D.I. Zeuss, “the,
said HARE, was creating a disturbance and there was an altercation
in which I may, or may not, have been involved, leading to
the subsequent murder and indeed, eventual disappearance of
the, er, Hare”.
He glared at me, daring me to challenge his version of the
events, and then belched obscenely.
There wasn’t a lot I could say so he nestled into my
Mother’s arms and promptly fell asleep. Case closed.
JAN
6th
We all went for a drive into the countryside.
“They must get a lot of hurricanes here”, said
My Mother, knowledgeably.
“What?” I said.
“Hurricanes,” said My Mother , “there’s
signs up everywhere warning about them”.
Brent and I looked at each other and then the penny dropped.
Hurricane is a brand of fencing wire used all over the place
round here.
JAN
7th
We took My Mother to the Airport.
It was full of migrating herds of Boy Scouts heading home from
a massive Jamboree.
My Mother ploughed into the thick of them, there was no holding
her back; she had that plane within her sights and she was
off to make sure the pilot knew where he was going. Thousands
of small boys hold no fear for her; she brought up 3 of them.
The Scouts, swarmed around her. In their uniforms of yellow
and black, I was afraid she’d get stung. She emerged
happily, unharmed and chomping at the bit to get on the plane.
Fortunately the pilot was already locked in his cabin, or she’d
have been in there, organising his flight schedule and making
sure he slowed down to make the turns.
Brent and I drove home via a friend’s place.
It is quiet without My Mother rattling around in the cupboards.
NEXT...
