The news of the day as seen from the perspective of a pensionable domestic moggy called Fluffy.

Saturday, October 12, 2002

The Rival

It has come to my attention that there are some people in the world who think I am not the Top Cat, who have pretensions to superiority. In particular, BFFP has a friend who 'owns' a cat which she feels has got more going for him. (I mean: him. Nuff said, surely?). I think this friend of BFFP must work in computers because they refer to her as 'Server-LAN'. Dunno if that's a particularly good name, if you ask me.

I feel it is only right and proper to put these pretensions in their place. Firstly, it is suggested that Hank (he being The Rival) is better than I because he catches mice. Mice? Chicken feed! When I was a young cat, I was a right tearaway. I was brought up on the mean streets. Mice were barely fit to be trampled under my bovver-booted feet. I used to chase small dogs, bring them down and rip lumps out of them. I only stopped there 'cos I didn't want a murder rap on my sheet. In fact, it was only after a period in a Feline Offenders Institution (the particular establishment was actually Battersea Dog's Home - how hard was I?) that I calmed down and was released into civilian society under the watchful eye of the BFFP. Hard to imagine given the docile, sleep-all-day moggy I am today.

Secondly, Hank does not have a blog, as far as I can tell and wouldn't know a Nokia Communicator if it bit him. In fact, I bet if he saw one, he would run away thinking it might bite him.

Thirdly, Hank rhymes with 'wank'. Do I need to go on?

Friday, October 11, 2002

Fluffy breaks down the barriers set-up by the Forces of Chubbiness

A heroic feat indeed! For weeks they have kept me locked out of the living room following an unfortunate incident in which I mistook the area under the stereo for my litter tray. Anyone can make a mistake and yet I have been denied access to the most happening room in the house ever since.

Well, they can keep me out no more! As they dozed, I took my chance. I sized up the situation: door handle about three feet off the ground, an easy jump in normal circumstances but little room for manoevure. Worse still, I had to grasp the handle between my slim but wiry paws and hang on till the catch was off and the door moved forward.

I approached the door. I paused underneath, gathering my strength, then leapt! As I rose like a salmon (salmon are overrated, me thinks, but one has to go with the idiom, I guess), my paws grasped the handle. I struggled, hanging on while the weight of my emaciated body pulled it down. After what seemed like a lifetime, the handle gave way and victory was mine.

Oh, alright, it took me 117 attempts to open the door but it was dark, the handle was slippy, I had difficulty getting both paws round it before I started to fall again... it's tough being an elderly moggy. If at first you don't succeed...

Anyway, the fruits of my labours were a comfy sofa, a TV remote control (a fascinating range of programming is available, especially from the Open University) and some cool sounds from the aforementioned stereo. Sorted.

Wednesday, October 09, 2002

It's autumn

As I look out across the street in my new home, I think wistfully of the year gone by. Autumn always gets me that way. Another year done and dusted. Can I look back and say I've really changed, really achieved the things I wanted to do. The leaves flutter down from the trees, all golden brown. Another bit of life passes away.

You expecting a joke? A laugh? I'm being wistful here. Get with the program.

The old wooden Cresta Run

One minute I hear "Just put one bag in a cup for me" from herself, and the next minute there's a racket from the staircase. BUMP, BUMP, OUCH, BUMP, FUCK, BUMP, BUGGER!

Well, he'd only slipped on the stairs, hadn't he. Straight down them like he was tobogganing without a toboggan.

He was not a happy bunny, yelping and hopping up and down. She was concerned (rightly so considering the racket he made) but when all was said and done, he had a slightly bruised arse and a carpet burn on his arm.

How useless is that? I FLY down those stairs every night trying to catch up with that mysterious creature I keep seeing (record time 1.28 seconds from top to bottom) and I don't get hurt at all. Instead, he gets loads of attention. Achievement these days is all too easily eclipsed by victimhood.


My excuse, but my Communicator just eats the buggers.