Sink or Swim

I ticked at least three of the boxes in Elaine’s conclusive table and from this I surmised that I am a rhinoceros. Which is a great relief. For a while I feared that I might be a naked, subterranean, Somalian mole rat. And there’s no fun in that. I’ve done my research and, aside from the obvious lack of clothing and inevitable teasing from fashionable lion cubs, one must also consider the cramped conditions, enforced procreation from the age of one (which seems a tad irresponsible) and infant blindness. Blind baby mole rats. Naked, blind baby mole rats. They must be cold. They haven’t got any clothes. I wonder how they feel about other baby mole rats of the ‘non-naked’ variety who must be currently cavorting about in cashmere whilst indulging in a quick, above ground round of ‘poke the wildebeest’. No wonder they stay in their tunnels. Who would want to be a naked baby mole rat? The elders of the colony feed them excrement. It’s true. It says so in Wikipedia. I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight. Somewhere out there a small, humiliated, blind baby mole rat is being forcibly fed bodily waste by the senile members of his naked family, whilst Elton John relentlessly chants choruses from Disney films and an apathetic gazelle films the whole nasty business on his iphone. Is this the circle of life? Is this democracy I ask you? Sometimes I wonder what the point of my vote is.

And this is your source of inspiration. I have discussed the matter with my cats and neither was particularly impressed. The bigger one promptly left the room in disgust, with a paw motion that I don’t quite understand but I suspect that it might have been rude and the smaller was preoccupied with a pink catnipped mouse that I purchased for him in a very pretty little shop in Leeds and said he wasn’t in the mood. Both seemed to agree with Elaine on the ‘humans being the fattest primate’ area. The smaller of the two used this citation as part of an impressively strong case aimed at getting me to open a tin of tuna and generally feel bad about myself. The irony when he discovered that he was quoting from a source that placed me and the tuna in the same bucket of fish, was palpable. He retired to my room and refused to talk to any of us for the rest of the day. This morning he slipped an unravelled tin-foil ball into my cereal on which was clawed exactly what he thought Elaine could do with her fish ape theory.

It’s my belief that you have only chosen to contemplate this line of exploration as it contains the word ‘omega’ and you know that I cannot pronounce it properly.

This is not my post. I set myself a challenge last week but I was foiled by my housemate’s efficiency in the ‘Love Film’ stakes. Before I could cry ‘What the Bleep...’ she’d posted the wretched DVD back. Within 24 hours the next DVD arrived – ‘Even Cowgirls Get the Blues’. Its main similarities to ‘What the BLEEP...’ were that I didn’t have a clue as to what was going on, my housemate tells me I became visibly angered at several moments and I slept through the final twenty minutes. No one wrote on themselves, although I did try to attack my wrists with a biro around fifteen minutes in. All is not lost. A pal tells me she has the ‘What the BLEEP’ box set. Yes – there is a box set. I thought one day we could sit down and watch the whole thing (aside from the final twenty minutes during which I intend to nap). Afterwards I could make you watch ‘Fame’ and then I should give my sofa a rub down. Please report back on the lido experiment. Maybe consider covering yourself in lard for protection against the inclement weather. It would be best to write on yourself prior to the lard application for ease. I still intend to write on myself. I might do so on Monday but I haven’t decided what yet. It is hard to give it serious thought when all around me baby mole rats are naked and suffering.


KP