A bear's path to Nirvana

I'm plodding on. We've had a couple of spring type days. A lazy sunny crisp afternoon. Just a hint of malt in the air from the brewery. Doesn't get much better for a small bear.

I could see Madame more. She's back at work pretty much full time and now the Film Festival has started. My only chance of getting her attention is having myself subtitled. I did catch her eye the other day by pretending to be Steve Buscemi.

I was going to use my free time to have another look at Buddhism For Bears but then they mentioned the new Mr Men website on The News Quiz - I can't remember why - but ... well, the chance to attain spiritual enlightenment vs the chance to prod Mr Happy with a poky thing and help Mr Tickle tickle a monkey.

Perhaps they are simply two paths to the same goal. I shall now contemplate this while watching the wonder that is Splat Pig -

The Roman Spring Cleaning of Mr Bear

Madame decided to make a start on the spring cleaning. A dangerous time for small cloth animals. One false move and it's the *shudder* Charity Shop Bag *scream*.

It can happen accidentally. A certain bear of my acquaintance had to be rescued from a jumble sale stall after she fell asleep in the wrong pile of clothes.

But you don't want to be drawing attention to yourself because then the "Oh, poor little thing. Maybe you should go the charity shop and then someone will buy you and love you" can happen. That's the stuffie equivalent of "it's not you, it's me". What it means is "Vile bag of stuffing - gathering dust and taking up valuable space that I could fill with shoes - into the Rag Bag of Doom".

Luckily Madame has been trying to go easy this year and we had a nice break from the chaos so we could watch Rome. We love Rome. They might have taken a few liberties with the history but don't think old Suetonius would have been too bothered. Makes a good companion piece for his Twelve Caesars - an entertaining romp with enough details to tickle the brain. And lots of naughty humans to amuse small bears.

Of course Madame likes to imagine that she would have been a Vestal Virgin when we all know that she would have been a scuzzy little Celtic slave. Don't know about me. Wouldn't have lasted long if they expected me to fight gladiators and eat Christians in the Colosseum. Yuk. No. Maybe a small temple with me on a plinth. Attended by lovely handmaids and fragrant slave boys. Gold offering. Sweet incense. Silk cushions.

I'm off to see if I can build myself a time machine.