Monday, 2 January 2012

Stuart Hill. Nth blog


Apparently we’re now supposed to include a photograph in each blog. I don’t know whether you can see mine or not, but it’s an example of an exciting new type of technology called ‘neurotech’. Quite simply it works by scanning your synapses after which it then tailors each piece of information to your own personal neurological wavelength. So if you can’t see my photograph, you’re an atavistic poltroon with all the cerebral power of a half-eaten jam sandwich. If you can see it, then I suspect you’re much the same.

Yes, you’ve guessed it; how clever you are, there is no photo! The reason for this is quite simple, I too have the cerebral power of a half-eaten jam sandwich and I can’t master the techniques to post one. Also, because of the holidays/season, I haven’t been able to pin down my tame IT types to give patient advice. I think they’re probably getting themselves worked up by running their fingers over keyboards and reading Naked Computer (wouldn’t surprise me one bit actually)

Anyway, changing the subject entirely, if I’m allowed to continue without my pics I thought I’d like to discuss cats:

I mean WHY?! Precisely why do people keep them? In the last few months, my psychopathic examples of Felinus Domesticus, have brought back countless dead mice – and one live one- birds, worms, beetles, dead leaves, other cats and more mud than the average rugby team acquires when playing in a ploughed field during a monsoon! IT’S SODDING EVERYWHERE!!! Carpets, clothes, manuscripts, paintings, even sodding crockery are all decorated with the filthy footprints of our darling creatures. The kitchen work-surfaces often look like they’ve been designed by a surrealist artist with a taste for the intriguing patterns pawprints can make when they’ve been crammed by the hundreds into a relatively restricted space.

I was recently stupid enough to leave a preliminary drawing for a painting unguarded for the amount of time it takes to turn around and sharpen a pencil. When I turned back there was a cat sat in the middle of it. A very muddy cat!!! Having removed the offending moggy with the back of my hand, I then spent the next hour patting the drawing dry and then ironing it. It wasn’t the same; it was a mere approximation of its former glory, a bit like some of those ageing pop stars who stare out from a morass of botox, collagen and surgery, and expect us to still recognise them! I am now convinced that if I could go back to that fateful day last summer when I went to the RSPCA compound and selected the black monsters that are steadily demolishing my home, I would have come back instead, with a budgie or perhaps a tortoise. Better still, nothing at all.

Right, I’ve completed my monthly rant and I’ve arrived at a place of Zen-like calm. If Fate, time and fortune allow, I’ll return next month for my regular purge, and I might even have a photo…Perhaps of the cats.


madwippitt said...

Neurotech or neurotic? And is there a difference anyway apart from spelling?

Your post did make me laugh.
Why anyone should want to give a cat house space when you could have a wippitt instead is completely beyond me. As Charles Dickens (often misquoted) so famously said once : "A wippitt is a far, far better thing ..."

Susan Price said...

So whippets never bring in mud or destroy anything?
I laughed too, Stuart - but looking forward to seeing a photo of those cats.

stuart said...

Myself and Clare (partner) do laugh sometimes, but more often than not outraged screams and technicolour language punctuate the monstrous felines' activities.

As for the saintly whippets, all I can say is that as a one-time dog-owner, they must be an exceptional breed!


Catherine Czerkawska said...

My friend's (otherwise delightful) whippet once stole and ate half a pound of butter, paper and all, then retired to its bed looking - if that's possible for a whippet - a little green round the gills.

stuart said...

My parents' spaniel did something very similar, but it was a pound of lard, and he was copiously sick!

But food theft isn't restricted to dogs; friends of mine had a wonderful ginger tom who once stole a neighbour's Sunday roast chicken. But by far his greatest achievement was to urinate enormously into a police car that had been unwisely left with open windows. When the policemen returned they didn't stay in the car long; it was a hot day and things had fermented somewhat.


madwippitt said...

All wippitts are perfect, therefore their actions are always above blame. And anyway, "Ask not what your wippitt can do for you, but rather what you can do for your wippitt" as some US president or other (like Dicken also often misquoted) once said.