would she lie?

She went off to some book festival thing. And she comes back with a denim skirt, 2 t-shirts and a bright red cagoul. Apparently masonic raccoons forced her into Handbags & Gladrags and made her buy things. She lost the evil rodents by running into Iceland where armed penguins made her buy microwave pizzas and ice cream. The world is clearly a more dangerous place than I had realised.

I was planning to spend the afternoon trying to work out why Oasis are so popular. But Liam Gallagher frightens me. Spent a while cowering under a cushion. Had to be lured out with a copy of Transmetropolitan. Read it while she caught up with Y:The Last Man. No housework has been done.

One more from Planet Ham - Pug on a ball. I love this picture. I love Planet Ham. I think she saw it mentioned on Neil Gaiman's blog. So I'll forgive her. Raccoons are nocturnal.

the waiting list

I'm trying not to move about too much. I've been a bit fragile. I've been on the waiting list for surgery for months now. And then I was dancing. To the Sugababes. "Bet you look good on the dance floor". And some of my stitching popped. I didn't panic. It has happened before. They can rebuild me. But I'm feeling a bit tatty and old and unloved. And if she doesn't sort me out soon I'm going private. Ooooooooo, and look at the tartan bunnets.

Sveiki

Sveiki. That's Latvian for "please don't eat me, I'm not a doughnut". Or something. Maybe it's "hello". Humpf. We're going to Riga. That's in Latvia. Probably.

Last year we were definately going to Berlin. Berlin - city of bears! We own it. It belongs to the bears. They don't give out a best film Oscar - they give out a Golden Bear! How cool is that. And there's Steiff. And Cabaret - divine decadence, burlesque, and Liza Minnelli, when she was still young and sexy.

"The World Cup's on". "Yes, the World Cup is on." "In Berlin." "Yes, in Berlin."

I like a bit of footie. I wear my Partick Thistle scarf with pride. I enjoy a bit of a kickabout. Or I would do if my footieball hadn't "disappeared".

She would rather lick marmite off John Prescott than have anything to do with the Beautiful Game. We weren't going to Berlin until it was all safely over. Humpf.

So this year we are definately, definately going to Berlin. We have the map. I've been practising. "Mein Name ist Bear und ich bin ein Bär. Sie sind ein sehr schönes Steiff."

But we're not going to Berlin now. We are going to Riga now. Because.

I expect that they toast bears over an open fire for fun there. In fact, here we are, the Bear Slayer. I'm going to die - my head pulled off by some big, fuzzy eared Baltic maniac.

I might just go to Berlin without her. Or Vienna.

Jelly babies

She appears earlier than I expected. She's taken the afternoon off. "Happy Valentine's Day" she says in tone that suggests drowned kittens. She's bought "The essential Leonard Cohen" and a party bag of jelly babies. She disappears off to bed with a hot water bottle. I'm not complaining. I didn't have much planned for the afternoon. A bit of light thinking. But the mood is changed and I can't concentrate. If I was Kate Moss, what would I be doing right now? Don't know. Are sock puppets are charming manifestation of folk art or button eyed freaks coming here to take our jobs and steal our women? Hum. My head feels a bit fizzy. Why spam? No good. All together now "Suzanne takes you down ..."

Suspicion

She's up to something. I don't know what, but something is definately going on. A strange trip at the weekend. New wellingtons. For her. Not for me. I'd love to have a new pair of wellies. Some of those frog ones. They're green and they have boogly eyes so you can stand in a puddle and people look at you and think "look at him, he's standing on 2 big frogs. or maybe toads.". Sorry, where was I? Oh, and not stupid red ones. Or a duffle coat. Humpf. Oh, yes, her. Acting suspicious. We visited The Cats. I wasn't allowed out. Even though there was snow and I like snow. And last night she brought me a present back. A book called "Fluffy". It's about a rabbit called Fluffy apparently. Back from where? Hum.

Paws

I like the idea of cats.


The idea of cats is something mysterious and sophisticated. Warm fur. The twitch of a tail. A contented purr. Dark eyes, shining in moon light.


The reality is more likely to be sulky and a bit smelly with claws. They will try to bite your head off. Or nibble your toes. Or shred you. Everything is a potential meal or a bed.

Real cats scare me. But don't get me started on dogs. Grrrrrr.

I am bear, hear me roar

I've forgiven her because she's found me this. The sound of bears. sniff. I wish I was out there. Catching salmon from clear, fast flowing Alaskan rivers. Terrorising sheep and Canadians. Climbing trees. Stealing picnic baskets. But she says it's cold out and I'm not sure where I left my scarf and mittens. Might just go back to bed instead.

Three before sulking

I was going to start an introduction to my forthcoming study "The menage a trois and the television trio". I was going to make some highly intelligent comparisons between "Jules et Jim" and "Bill and Ben". Were they both influenced by the tensions in the relationships between Andy Pandy, Teddy and Looby Loo? I was going to go on to talk about Sooty, Sweep and Sue. Mention the Fimbles. Did Rod, Jane and Freddy prepare the audience for Alfonso Cuarón's film "Y tu mamá también"? But no, she's been out - probably to the pub - and she's tired. "Some of us have work tomorrow" apparently. Humpf. Apparently her comfort is more important than my intellectual growth. I don't know what Tom Paulin would do - write a poem about it? -but I'm going to sulk. Maybe I'll write a poem too. An epic saga of sulk.

Must have 2

Read the books? Got all the graphic novels? Check the blog every day? Now wear the scent.

Must have

We. Want. This.

A matter of national security

Today she attempted to flood our little flat. She was going to do the dishes, forgot, wandered away in a daze (probably thinking about Rufus Wainwright or chocolate - she usually is) and left the tap running. She's claiming that this is more evidence that we need servants. They'd have to be very small, willing to sleep in the wardrobe and work for no money. Which sounds more like slavery to me. I think it's more evidence that she could be dangerous if she fell into the wrong hands. And she's still not allowed a creme egg.

Glitter

Somehow she's managed to cover everything in little bits of blue sparkly. Using up her Christmas Lush stuff. Our little apartment is inappropriately festive. I look more disco than I'm in the mood for. So last season. So very, very December. We'll just have to hope that nothing gloomy and serious happens in the near future. She'll be trolling about like a big Tinkerbell for weeks to come.

Be Your Own Pet

... best band name EVER. Don't know about the noise they make but the name ... good stuff.

Even more exciting news. Window Box Squirrel is back! She says it's probably some other squirrel but she's just sore about the big hole he's dug. I think I'd know my squirrel. Actually it's not that big a hole and it's not as if there's anything out there. Nothing growing. Even the windmills are looking a bit tatty. I think Mr Squirrel's interesting and innovative landscaping technique is a valid comment on the theme of doom and desolation right outside my window.

And, no, she's not allowed a creme egg.