I am hiding from the packing, and musing upon Beauty and Truth. This is not constructive, I will be the first to admit. The GB is enjoying the fleshpots of Rhyl. My Mother has gone helling around in the Lake District with her scandalously young friends, plus this dog she has that looks as if it was whipped up hastily from cotton wool balls and some liquorice. By someone who had heard dogs described but had never actually seen one.
It is raining with unnecessary force, so I shall remain indoors. Last night, there was a thunderstorm straight from Special Effects. I like those. I once persuaded a friend of mine (who was getting married the next day) to drive to Crosby beach with me in order to watch a violent storm. We had to make our own entertainment in those days. The bride-to-be had entrusted him to me so that he would not go and do something stupid with his male buddies. Oh dear.
This was before hen parties. One of the undoubted benefits of female emancipation is that groups of women now have the right to dress up as Bob The Builder and fall over in Mathew Street. The Pankhursts would be thrilled.
When I lived in Fazackerley, we had a long, low Victorian sideboard. We also had a large blubbery old dog ,"Nip". During a storm, at the first loud clap of thunder, the dog habitually bolted across the room and wedged itself under the sideboard. The panic-fuelled momentum that had enabled it to get under there was of insufficient longevity to get it out again.There was a heavy wooden bar between the front legs of this ponderous piece of furniture,beneath which Nip was now hopelessly trapped. Now wearing the sideboard like a Samurai suit of wooden armour; the fool would try to stand up and free itself, whereupon all the ornaments would slide off on to the lino. At this point my Dad would bellow "Oh, for God's Sake!" and go and get his tool box. "Don't shout at the dog, Alan" my Mother would advise,mildly, "She'll only wet herself".
So I although I have long viewed storms as a potential source of entertainment, the same is not true of dogs. They do terrible, unseemly things, and they do them in public. Maybe this is why the Giant Boy yearns for one so?
Not wild for cats,either.One of my dearest friends lives in Glasgow,in a splendidly baronial house,known locally as "The Palace". It is vast, with immense, dignified staircases and huge windows ("Not washed since we were Capital of Culture in 1990", she informed me proudly). Both she and the Palace are extraordinarily pleasing to look at; and when she decided to get a cat, she was determined that it would be up to scratch, so to speak. She got a Bengal Leopard . Do look them up. If you Google any combination of "Wild, huge, expensive,insane, murderous,temperamental,exotic" with "Cat", they will pop up straight away. I hied me off to Scotland to view this marvel when it was a (ha!) kitten. You know when someone shows you their baby, which they are dripping with love for, and it is a screaming red pudding ,and you don't know where to look? Well, it was a bit like that. It resembled a skinned alien rabbit with truly alarming crimson eyes. And it glittered, in certain lights, all over.
However, like all unprepossessing infants, it changed as it grew, and grew..six months later I went up again. It greeted me on the stairs, snarling. The size of a large hyena, it had become a thing of undoubted beauty. Icy blue eyes, pale shimmering fur, and a strong look of Uma Thurman, it was Some Cat,to misuse Charlotte 's description of Wilbur in "Charlotte's Web".Although Wilbur the saintly pig would have served merely as a light snack. Still, I could truthfully congratulate my friend on her taste, aesthetically speaking. The weekend passed pleasantly,with only occasional shrieks from clawed Ocado delivery men, and loud bumps and crashes as it leapt across the furniture, scattering vases. Until Sunday morning,when I took a bath. I came out wrapped in a towel, planning to go back for my togs and boots. It was waiting for me outside the bathroom door, and sprang. It got me round the ankles.When I put my hands down to peel it off, they were instantly savaged. Bleeding generously, I retreated to the bathroom and put my boots on, yelling for help.My friend appeared, looking cross."Oh, you BAD leopard!" she thundered, and throwing a duvet over it, wrestled it to the the ground, shouting "Run, Liz, run NOW!"
Interestingly, it is chipped and registered against being catnapped. They are pedigree creatures and cost a packet. But I do wonder who,even in gritty Glasgow, would chance nabbing it without full lion-taming kit and extensive training. It would make a worthy pet for that chap who tackled the terrorists at Glasgow Airport. John 'McClane' Smeaton is one of my favourite Glaswegians, described simply as "Airport worker,hero,smoker" on the website page dedicated to him. I love Glasgow. It is one of the most beautiful cities, architecturally, and the inhabitants are fine people. I like Edinburgh well enough,and spent many a summer there; but when I first alighted in Glasgow, I felt at home. Although home at present is a series of cardboard boxes loosely connected by a roof. Which reminds me,I must stir myself and return to packing trunks ,which when opened will contain one shoe, seven books, and a saucepan. even though I will have no recollection of putting such a wild combination together. Ah well, we must experience the dull to appreciate the sublime, as Dear Oscar once remarked.I bet Constance did all HIS packing.
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