Closing Time

Tags

Annie Lennox, Boris Johnson, Brave New World, Darcey Bussell, David Cameron, Duchess of Cambridge, Eric Idle, Fatboy Slim, Grayson Perry, husband, London 2012, Lord Coe, Olympics, Poor Clares, Prince Harry, Prince William, Ray Davies, Russell Brand, The Queen, The Tempest, Trinity, Vivienne Westwood

The Tenth Sunday after Trinity

Clare of Assisi, Founder of the Minoresses (Poor Clares), 1253.

Maybe she would have something pertinent to say about the economy?

A scorcher with threatening thunder which disappeared after 2pm.

9pm saw my hubby and myself on our starter sofas, ready for action viewing.

A strangely nasal singer commenced the proceedings and a bad Churchill impression did not light my Olympic flame.  Same speech from The Tempest ; different hats.

Prince Harry appeared, instead of The Queen.  A solitary Duchess of Cambridge was there. Probably Wills was hovering overhead in a helicopter, watching in case his brother became too flirty with his wife.  If Harry got too fresh, Wills might have Kate sent to the Tower and could marry Pippa the following day.  They can be like that.

Batman came out of a Robin, but he was American, wasn’t  he?  What’s he got to do with it?

There was too much Our House, or One’s House, as someone joked at the Jubilee.  Probably the Royal version is One’s Hice.

The Ku Klux clan appeared to be cycling past, or was it a belated Semana Santa procession for the Spanish contingent?  No, it was The Pet Shop Boys.  One Direction  had the crowd singing the annoying Na-na-na-na refrain, while the whole of London seemed bent on street sweeping, which isn’t a bad idea.  Cameron wants 100% youth employment, so there’s your answer, Dave.

Ray Davies of The Kinks understood that the crowd were not completely thick and so gave them a variation to join in – namely, Sha-la-la-la, which made a change.  At least it was a catchy tune and distracted you from the bankers committing suicide by hurling themselves out of the Gherkin, which some would have found the best bit.

Russell Brand did his I am the Walrus act and I was glad that that awful mate of his, who only gets  him into trouble, wasn’t there, namely Mr Woss.  Grayson Perry, as Clare seemed to be with him, but, then again, it all happened so quickly that I might have been mistaken.

Fatboy Slim – I recognised the oxymoron, was at the centre of a huge octopus, while Jesse J gave everyone their big chance to sing La la la la confidently, because by now most of them knew the words.

The fashion parade was interesting but the commentators did not elaborate on the designers. I thought that Annie Lennox was probably in Vivienne Westwood for her number, but I failed to recognise the Dracula connection.

The pixels and lighting were stunning throughout. Eric Idle’s skating nuns would not have been out of place on Duddingston Loch .  Idle wasn’t shot out of the cannon, but Russell Brand, no, Russell Grant could have been. He had had plenty of practice on Strictly. Now that he has stopped dancing, he might have put on weight and got stuck, however. Sergei, the meerkat might have done it well, but he is anxious to maintain his dignity, so he might not have been too enthusiastic.

The rap did not appeal to me, even though the audience now had the opportunity to repeat, Ay-oh in response to Baby, let’s go.  I thought that was Teletubbie lingo.

Harry was getting a bit bored and started chewing, even just after the big We will rock you number.  I hoped that the Koreans  or Iranians wouldn’t get any ideas for a We will nuke you number.

The Greek flag was raised and that would have been a good moment for a whip-round, I felt.  The Mods on scooters could have whizzed around, collecting the bags.

From Greeks we fast-forwarded to Georgios Michael, who danced all over Damian’s sprayed flag, singing about Freedom and wearing a miniature For The Love of God skull on his belt buckle.  Again, that song title could have suggested a panty pad advertising jingle. Maybe he was out on bail or had a new release coming soon.  Wake me up before you go-go might have given the crowds a chance to vocalise the double syllables that they had been practising throughout the evening.

The London Eye becoming a baldacchino was a powerful symbol of immanence over a vacuum, I thought.  Maybe Zeus or Boris was meant to bless the gathering, but there was no sense of the divine that I could detect.  Lennon’s Imagine stated that there was no heaven nor hell, but only sky above us.  It was moving, but a profound sense of spiritual emptiness swept over me.  Were we meant to worship Man as Superman?  After the exposure of the clay feet of the Tiger Woods of this world, I could only feel limitation, not exaltation.

Past gods materialised in the shape of Mercury- Freddy, to be precise.  He raised the bar of audience participation by challenging the crowd to replicate fairly complex vowel sequences.  The figures on the screens made me think of Brave New World and the feelies.  Was I to become a pleb?

It must have been difficult to entertain everyone while 204 flags were being brought in and athletes were filling in the stripes, like painting by numbers.  Indian drums created tension and suspense, but the white box set building was a natural point for nipping off to the loo, but not if you were in the crowd, obviously.  I wondered about the facilities.  Basically, it was going on too long for anyone’s bladder capacity.  No wonder Philip had given it a miss.

Darcey Bussell’s Firebird section was dazzling, but then there were speeches and that French guy never seemed to smile, though he recognised that our hosting had been happy and glorious, to coin a phrase-not.  Coe smiled, but then he has a job lined up for the next few years, which is more than the marvellous volunteers probably have. To continue The Tempest references, we might echo Antonio, the usurping King of Milan:

Worthy Sebastian….

…methinks I see it in thy face,

What thou should’st be…

My strong imagination sees a crown

Dropping upon thy head..

I was relieved when the accident-prone Johnson managed to avoid setting himself alight, by furling his flag too close to the flames.  Maybe that was why the Duke of Cambridge was hovering overhead, ready to unleash gallons of water from on high.  Or was he on standby to douse Boris’ burning bush or to dampen Harry’s passion? Maybe he was trying to persuade his granny to jump.  Coe addressed Your Majesties, so he clearly expected them to drop in. Perhaps they had missed their cue.  As a fallback, the massed pipe bands could have played:

Oh ye cannae shove your granny oot a ‘copter-x2

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Too Darn Hot

Tags

Beckhams, Ben Ainslie, Chichester Festival Theatre, coalition, Cole Porter, Danny Boyle, David Cameron, Kiss Me Kate, London 2012, metaphysical poetry, MItt Romney, Mo Farah, Nick Clegg, Nick Clegg rose garden, Olympics, Team GB, Tom Daley

Friday

27 degrees in London, but no gold medals for GB.

The synchronised swimming didn’t look that synchronised, nor was there a lot of swimming going on.  BMX I associate with kids.

More attractive was a trip to Chichester for Kiss Me Kate. When the chorus sang It’s  too Darn Hot! I concurred. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the general ideology, but the showmanship would have outshone a Danny Boyle spectacle any day.

Cole Porter was an absolute genius for lyrics and the cast’s diction was spot on. I’m always true to you darlin’- in my fashion might have been a coalition rendition for Nick Clegg to sing to Dave in the rose garden.

Day 15- 32 medals to be won- the most for any day thus far.

Flymo!

Romney has chosen his running mate, I see.  It sounds as if they are going to enter the 5,000 metres in Rio.

A medal for each of his twins – that was Mo’s aim and he achieved it. The Bolt was incredibly well-mannered about Birmingham and Brunel Universities and their hospitality. I hope that someone will sneak the relay baton for him.

Yes, there were batons and successful bantams.  There was bravery in the diving with various degrees of waxing evident. The hirsute level did not seem to hamper success.

I hope that the Beckham boys hadn’t indulged in flash photography when Daley was concentrating.  David was babysitting so Posh could get in some much-needed dress rehearsal. How many black outfits does she have to try on? He must get fed up with hearing her saying, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.  He probably mutters under his breath. What I really want is a bit of peace round here. Hence the quality time with the boys.

Ben Ainslie came on screen, looking rather knackered and he announced that he would be carrying the flag in the closing ceremony.  He may/ may not go to Rio. (Cue for a Winehouse song):

They wanted me to go to Rio, but I wouldn’t go-o-o.

He might make a second career as a pop star. He has the looks and we all know that you don’t need a voice.  Maybe he is going to settle down and have four kids- one for each medal.  I thought of all those Metaphysical poems where youthful good lookers were persuaded to have progeny to continue their genetic line.  Don’t waste it, Ben!

One more day to go.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Murray Mints Gold

Tags

Andy Murray, Ben Ainslie, Boris Johnson, David Cameron, James Naughtie, London 2012, Olympics, Pussy Riot, Roger Federer, Spice Girls, tennis

Sunday

Thunderstorms forecast.  Interesting for Ben Ainslie, I deliberated.

Twenty three medals up for grabs today.  Four weeks ago Andy was greetin’ on court.  I wondered who would be crying at the end of the day.  Would Federer treat Andy like a giant midge at a barbecue, ie/ like a harmless nuisance to be shooed away, or would he see him as a pesky wasp who might give him a fatal anaphylactic sting?

At 2pm I settled down on the sofa to start watching.  It was difficult as I had to keep flicking over to see Ben’s progress against the Great Dane.  Did that make Andy’s opponent a St Bernard?  I wouldn’t have minded being rescued from a crevasse by a brandy delivered on the rocks by the Swiss, to continue the canine and/or avalanche imagery.

Ainslie came in all flares blazing, having blocked the Dane’s wind.  That must have been painful for the Scandinavian.  I once read, in Suetonius perhaps, that Roman emperors, but can’t remember which one, had believed in never obstructing wind.  But Ben hadn’t been a Classicist, I remembered. Maybe Boris could give him a few lessons to round him off as a New Elizabethan.  Then James Naughtie could fit him into one of his programmes.

Hey, Andy was improving all the time and Roger was making unforced errors.  He won in three sets and Roger slunk off.  He looked as if he needed a brandy.  Andy even hugged a random child in the crowd.  Kim looked broody.

Meanwhile Jedburgh and parts of Pembrokeshire were being washed away, like Federer’s hopes.

The news is full of Pussy Riot.  Having worked in a girls’ school, I could recognise the concept.  One of the band members is called Squirrel and she was a spokespussy for the band. In a very un-Tuftylike pronouncement she accused Putin of being afraid of girls. Goodness knows how he will react to the re-formation of The Spice Girls. Probably pretty favourably, but he is only over on a flying visit to see the Judo and to get a lecture from Cameron, so he will probably miss their comeback.   David isn’t afraid of girls, I thought. He sends LOL texts to giant Squirrelly ones that you wouldn’t trust to teach your child the Highway Code, let alone the moral code.  But she is an endangered species now.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Something Sensational

Tags

Andy Murray, Boris Johnson, gold medal, London 2012, Lord Coe, Roger Federer, Stella McCartney, Team GB

Saturday

Three golds in less than an hour.  Good old Boris can challenge the gloomsters.

Apparently software enables computers to make decisions.  I wish I could have an algorithm which might help me to get out of bed.  I feel sure that some of my friends already have one that programmes them to make 10,000 purchases a day, so it isn’t so surprising that the Stock Market suffers similar compulsions.

The day ended brilliantly for Team GB after the doubles match with Andy and Laura. He will have to go to bed earlyish, I mused, as he is playing Federer tomorrow and then he has another doubles match.

I think Stella McCartney’s gear looks great, whether it is in the form of briefs or headbands.  Andy even has the sweatbands.  But who on earth designed those quasi-molar, Cyclops-eyed Wentworth and Mandeville creatures?  Probably the same weirdo who came up with Mr Blobby.

It was a day when things had come off – athletes’ shoes, or rowers’ seats.  Lord Coe said we had witnessed something sensational.

All Things Lavenderial

Tags

Andy Murray, Bradley Wiggins, Chlamydia, Clydeside, coffee, Glasgow, lavender, London 2012, Michael Phelps, Novak Djokovic, Olympics, Roger Federer, Sarah Montague’, Thought for the Day, Warren Buffet

You could sit in the sun, but there was a wind. I suggested to my friend Chlamydia that we should go to an alternative venue for those all-important coffees.

There is a barn with surrounding lavender fields which sells all things lavenderial – wreaths, scrubs, oils, essential and non-essential, cake, shortbread and lilac furbelows.  Actually they stock pink, white and tufted green plants as well and someone told me that they had supplied floral spikes for the Olympic bouquets.  They probably supply some for the local Hyacinth Bouquets too.  Chlamydia, or Clammie, as she prefers to be known, caught them out, though, by asking for lavender which suited a north-facing position.  It was worthy of Gardeners’ Question Time from Sparsholt College.  Of course, she knew the answer and she also knew that it was only available on the Isle of Wight, so there!

Then I quizzed them as to whether the lavender in the shortbread was definitely of the edible variety.  I was a little nervous since they hadn’t known the answer to the north-facing question.

After a cyclist had been run over by a bus containing the media, Wiggins had lent his support to the cause of compelling cyclists to wear helmets.  Some smart arse had objected and recommended that more people should simply get on their bikes and go onto the roads and there would be safety in numbers.  I could only think of huge flocks of Canada geese, where the outriders were picked off by preying predators, yet a percentage made it through to sunnier climes, or to more wintry ones, depending on the birds in question. We are supposed to be worth more to God than the fall of a sparrow, I pondered.  I had heard that assurance on Thought for the Day.  I thought that more academics should listen in, if they weren’t too exasperated with Sarah Montague in the rest of the programme. They might learn something.

Andy eliminated Djokovic in a very short time and then actually smiled.  Roger, looking very fetching in the colours of his country’s flag, played the longest Olympic tennis semi-final ever, against a very smart Argentinian.  When Roger nipped off for a comfort break, I myself was relieved that the Argy guy did not unfurl a banner about the liberation of the Malvinas, though that was the second publicity opportunity that they had missed.

I was disappointed in Roger’s wife, however.  She was wearing a baseball cap- and I remembered what that had done to William Hague’s credibility- and she was chewing, as if she was Alex Ferguson. My granny had always told me off for chewing in public though she had come from Clydeside.  So, I shuddered to think what part of Glasgow Alex had come from.  At any rate, cud regurgitation was not a cool look and I felt it was unworthy of the consort of the glacial elegance of Federer.

At a crucial match point a baby had started yelling and I had felt that stab of maternal anxiety that can ruin a day out or an evening meal for adults.  I was glad when it was silenced- perhaps by an usher asking if it had its own ticket, or was merely related to a ball boy or girl.  Just as well it hadn’t squawked at Andy’s match, or his mum might have dealt with it very efficiently off camera- see Scottish play.

I watched the women’s ten thousand metres race and found it amusing to see the four Africans overtake the others who were visually ahead, but who were in lap arrears.  They had to avoid a big Polish(?) guy who had chucked a cannonball an amazing distance.  He had the bad manners to run across their track.  Had he tripped they would have had to hurdle over him, like negotiating some kind of beached whale.  Then it was the turn of pregnant wives and excited children to swarm over the track.  It was getting like the rush hour.

On the radio I had heard someone quoting Warren Buffet, who commented that when the tide recedes you can see those who are swimming naked. I wondered if there was a wave machine in the Olympic pool.  It would be quite interesting to flick a switch.  However, they all seemed to favour those lycra long johns – even Michael Phelps – pity.

Gold Standard

Tags

Andy Murray, badminton, David Cameron, General Burnside, gold medal, Gore Vidal, Grayson Perry, installation, London 2012, Olympics, sideburns, stamps, tapestry, Wiggo

Wednesday, 2^nd August.

At last, a golden day for Britain, screamed the headlines.  The favourite words of Gore Vidal: I told you so! must have been uttered by many a coach.

We rowed and we rode.  Bradley admitted that he had been greedy, but no other colour than gold had interested him.  So much for it’s all about taking part!  The papers issued cut out hairy ginger adornments which people stuck to their babies at Hampton Court, unaware of the original General Burnside who had popularised them.  Maybe David Cameron could have sported a pair and might have pretended to be Gladstone, which might have affected party unity.

Brad speaks like Grayson Perry, I observed.  Maybe it had been Grayson in disguise all along and the whole summer had been some kind of cycling installation whose success was going to be woven into a tapestry by weavers in Flanders.  Bradley will, no doubt, have some connections there to aid the spoof, or woof.

The scull girlies were presented with a mock-up stamp which featured their success.  They presumably have to share it.

Well, what can they expect in times of austerity? The badminton baddies were disqualified.  No appeal. No parents’ meetings with all concerned. No re-sits.

Wondering

Tags

Anthony Gormley, Day of Judgement, eBay, gold medal, Jesus, London 2012, Mervyn King, Olympics, Robert Peston, Usain Bolt

Ah, what it is to live in the Isles of Wonder, I mused.  We are so lucky, except for those immigrant workers who are ripped off by rotten landlords in Newnham and squeezed into Supersheds, with no planning permission.  I hope that, post-Olympics, they will be offered  de-commissioned flats in the defunct Olympic village. At least those didn’t have missiles on their roofs.  Will those weapons be taken down afterwards? I wondered.  Maybe the security services are hoping that people will not notice if they leave them in situ, like Gormley rooftop sculptures, going rusty.

The Chinese seemed to be taking most of the gold medals at this juncture.  I wish that they would stop biting them in their photo sessions.  Maybe they think that they are chocolate Euros, like the ones in plastic net bags.  They might think that they are worthless and had better be eaten quickly before the sell by date, which no one, not even Mervyn King nor Robert Peston knows.  It is like the Day of Judgement, where even the Son does not know its precise date of arrival, though plenty of American evangelists claim that they have insider knowledge of the same.

I was devastated to read that the gold medals were actually silver with a thin gold coating.  After all that the athletes had renounced, they might have given them real gold.  Later I was outraged that The Bolt hadn’t been allowed to keep his relay baton.  He could have got a lot for that on eBay and, let’s face it, he has expenses, and clubbing in London isn’t cheap, especially when you have to treat a bevy of beach volleyballers.

The American coach looked as if he wanted to bite the Chinese girl who had suddenly shorn five seconds off her personal best.  The Chinese National Anthem was played and the victors lined up, dutifully mouthing every word, unlike Brits, who universally tend to get stuck on verse two of their own.

Aquatic Centred

Tags

Elizabeth Frink, husband, London 2012, Olympics

There was a thunderstorm mid-day, but my husband wouldn’t have noticed, as he was glued to all things aquatic at The Pringle or The Panty Pad as I couldn’t help thinking of it.

A line of weirdly-goggled figures emerged from a tented poolside, looking like Elizabeth Frink warrior heads, only listening to headphones to avoid receiving their applause.  Again I thought that was an example of Bad Manners. Also, having disapproved of Lady Steel, I was not going to admire the various tacky floral tattoos which decorated many of the torsos on display.

A fifteen year old girl won a heat and I was reminded of a twenty two year old swimmer who had commented on the young people coming through, which made her sound positively ancient.  I suppose that means that I am only fit for burial at sea.  I feel like one of those condemned to the Zimmer, not the Zil Lane in life.

Unkindest Cut?

Tags

Alan Bennett, Boris Johnson, Bras, James Naughtie, John Humphries, London 2012, Lord Coe, Olympics, pigeons, Sarah Montague’, Scotland, Scottish Play, Tesco, Wiggo

Listening to the news at 1am, I tried to filter out the depressing latest bulletins from Syria.

I perked up, however, when I caught a snippet about fifteenth century linen bras having been discovered in a Tyrolean castle.  It proved, apparently, that this type of underwear had been in existence a couple of centuries earlier than had been previously thought.  The next item was introduced as a world briefing, without anyone noticing the connection.  You would have thought that John Humphries would have latched onto the pun, but he might have been sparing Sarah Montague’s feelings. Goodness knows why: she never spares anyone.  He usually is quite good at masking James Naughtie, as the latter often commits a terminological inexactitude, as when Lady Steel ( wife of Liberal, David) aka the granny with the jaguar tattoo, was on the programme.  Naughtie commented on the fact that one headline had said the tattoo had been a sudden revelation for her seventieth birthday.  He wondered if they could get a photo of it for their website, if it wasn’t in too delicate a position.

Lady Steel affirmed that she had not had it done precipitously and he then “naughtily” quipped that she wasn’t hiding it under a bushel, was she?

Probably Naughtie is more comfortable with discussing the Edinburgh Tattoo. Mind you, his weather reports from The Festival sound Irish rather than Scots:

Some fog around, which you will know about, if you are in it..

I could have shocked the nation rigid with a revelation about a septuagenarian acquaintance of mine who told me that she had decided to lose her virginity on her three score year and ten birthday.  She had then gone on to have piercing when she was eighty.  That made Lady Steel look positively demure.

John Humphries hurried to the next topic which was according to a rabbi the biggest challenge to Judaism since The Holocaust.  Someone had mooted that circumcision is basically malice aforeskin, as children have no choice in the matter and it is irreversible.  The rabbi said that if it were done, t’were best that it was done quickly. The Scottish play again.

Then it was pointed out that the Queen had had all her boys snipped, but who is to say what the effects have been on them?

I wondered if Judy Murray had taken that line too with Andy and Jamie, but didn’t want to hazard a guess concerning the Switzer.

Saturday brought some sunshine, but a threatening sky and suspicious levels of humidity came with it.  Better get the rest of the blackcurrants in before the wood pigeons pounce, I thought to myself. Pigeons were on the news this morning.  Some fancier had taken his birds to France for a race and eight of them had failed to return to the UK.  He probably suspected that a family linked to La Chasse had already baked them in a pie, or turned them into a terrine, but suddenly he had reports from the Bahamas that they were sunning themselves there. It was too far for them to have winged their way to that location, so they must have hitched a ride on a cruise ship.  Can’t say you could blame them this summer.

The Olympic flame was abseiled in by a Marine to the Tower of London last night, at 20.12pm, enabling Boris to make a quip about how he was reminded of Henry VIII and how it was a marvellous place to bring an old flame.  He then became too excited and over-extended the metaphor by trying to convince everyone that there would be a veritable forest fire/ conflagration or towering inferno of enthusiasm for the Games.

Evan Davis teased Lord Coe about the likelihood of getting past the sponsor spies if you were wearing a Pepsi t-shirt.  We were left with an unconvincing assurance that Nike trainers would probably be all right.  Alan Bennett could have told them that trainers mean that you are probably not fully qualified and are certainly not the type of footwear that Jesus would have worn.  Maybe that would be enough of a social drawback.

Sunday.

Allez, Wiggo!

Wiggo does not like cheating or performance- enhancing drugs; he does like sideburns.  He is 6’3” and only 10 stone 6 lbs.  A belly putter would give him no advantage, even if he was a golfer, since he has a washboard for a stomach.

I considered taking up cycling for the second time that summer. Then I could eat Tesco’s Rocky Road straight out of the big black plastic tub- the one with the line-drawn glamorous woman wearing a fascinator on the lid.  There was no way that someone that resembled that illustration could possibly be associated with these calorific time bombs.

Four is an even number.  And now that one at the bottom looks so lonely…

Belgian chocolate.  Mmm. Three famous Belgians?- Bradley

Wiggins, sort of; Herge and err..?

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Catty

Tags

Barcelona, Cat, Gordon Brown, husband, London 2012, Olympics, Sagrada Familia, Scotsman, Tesco

I heard that there were lots of Olympic tickets unsold and there was happy footage of cheerful Romanians practising their sure-fingered prestidigitation on unsuspecting Japanese tourists, right in front of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.  They were limbering up for London 2012. I couldn’t understand why I was watching a programme about them, instead of seeing them being arrested. Security was forcing innocent ticket holders to open their packed lunches while the gangs observed the whereabouts of their wallets.  Come to think of it, G4S would probably be suspicious of Big Issue sellers if they were Romanian.  If there were to be a dearth of security volunteers, I might suggest that our local tramp could get himself a job.  After all, he could provide his own mobile phone. Gordon Brown had declined a ticket, apparently.  Well, no Scotsman would want to hazard having his pocket picked.

The news excelled itself in the reportage of doom.  Seemingly we are all heading for heart attacks because we do not do enough aerobic activity. Fair enough, I thought, but it isn’t exactly inspiring to go out in the driving rain.  There had been a momentary diversion of the jet stream and I had hot-footed it to Tesco Express, leaving my coat behind in misguided optimism.  Even the Big Issue seller had disappeared: perhaps he had secured a job with Mr Buckle.

I returned and went upstairs to look at my e-mails.  There was one in the Inbox which was headed Sad News.  I hesitated before opening it, wondering if the woman’s husband or father had died, but it was only her seventeen and three quarters year old cat that had gone to that scratching post in the sky.  Maybe the sender would hold a service of celebration for all the joy that she had been brought, along with some offerings of dead mice and the odd baby bird.  She could hold a wake and could serve sandwiches- not Whiskas, although I thought that you could probably eat them without doing yourself any damage.  I know of several people who feed their cats peeled prawns and their children Turkey Twizzlers.

I was unsure how to respond.  Clinton cards were gone, or going, from the High Streets, so where was I to find a suitable missive?  I could make one myself and add something appropriate, such as:

Your moggie’s snuffed it.

I’m so sorry

that it was not

your husband.

A cat has nine lives:

thank goodness

your husband

only has one.

Maybe that was a bit cynical.  If it had been the husband who had shaken off his mortal coil, I could send:

Your husband’s snuffed it.

But, chillax –

at least it wasn’t

your cat.

Felines, whoa-oa-oa-felines! 

R.I.P.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012