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16 October 2014

Flying Cat - November 2006


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I'm a captivated kitty, struck squeekless by a photograph in a recent edition of the Harrold Newspaper (obviously an Orkney publication....) which showed, in all its loveliness, an earth house, which was for sale on Another Island Far Away. I can't get it out of my head (it's a very small house....): all it lacked to make it a Feline Home of Character and Distinction was the Catflap of Doom. Inspired, I rushed off to my thinking place (the philistines will say sleeping - not true!) on smallfatgreenchair, to devise a cunning plan for a Mogtunnel with flap at either end - such a simple idea and yet so effective for boarders, repelling of - if only my current abode could be fitted with one, our liff would be so much more calm and Zenlik - anyway, all around this demi-paradise was a sea of heather as far as the eye could spy, with a lonely lochan below - the chancitunities for huntin' moochin' and fishin' would be infinite! Oh, ma grannie's heilan' hame at last, I thought. Which is a bit daft, seeing as how I haven't the foggiest where ma grannie came from, but you get my drift. And then, floating off on the wings of a dreamcatcher, I imagined me and m'ginger chum, luxuriating on a discarded sheepcoat (how does that work? does it grow a new one?) in front of a glowing woodburner, while the bipeds yomp off to the forest to collect massive faggots, and that's when I knew it would never work. No forests on South Uist. And probably no faggots either.........
Posted on Flying Cat at 16:07



Picture This - Fantasia in Red

3:50pm. The Hill of Howe is sable and the farm buildings and Cat House on the brow are jet-black cut-outs against a sky of sudden flux: thunder grumbles; a line of sweet pinky-turquoise is overcome by lowering, glowering, slatey-grey cloud, and the new-lit streetlight glows luscious lippy strawberry-red against it. A zappy zigzag of icyblue lightning rips the mirky heavens apart; again grunder rolls; tiny lights twink in Orphir and - NOW - the gods clash mightily overhead. Stuff your monotheisms: if there are any gods, there are many gods. And there 'e stood, on 'is 'orse, wiv 'is 'awk in 'is 'and. Wa-hey! for the 'awk who zapperonied the red-rumped swallow before the jaw-dropped gaze of the massed ranks of twittering twitchers near Montrose. G'wan the 'awk!! Nature redd in toof and claw! Let's hear it for top predators! (Like moi).
Posted on Flying Cat at 16:20



Komfy Katz R Us (with apologies to barebraes)

I was lounging elegantly on the futon of earthly delights, with fpu ruining all the while a perfectly ordinary, innocuous wee wooden box with stencils and paints: the radio was chuntering away in my furry lug as Ian Hislop, the Poisoned Porg of HIGNFU, searched for the meaning of Liff, the Universe and Middle England, when, WHAM! - appropriately enough - out leapt the word 'comfy'. Comfy. A cosy, shapeless housecoat, battered baffies, roast and two veg, nice mug of Horlicks before you pop off to bed dear sort of a word. A word that instantly cast a blaze of light onto one of the darkest questions ever to torment personkind: a quibble of such profundity that it has exercised the female biped's mind (in as much need of excercise as the corporeality it inhabits) for ever such a long time - why does anyone ever ever listen to Radio 2? And there you have it. In a nutshell. Comfy. An answer even more profound than 42: a philosophical nugget which I just had to share - cos I'm a caring sharing kitty - in an awfully nice, non-confrontational, head below the dike, after you, kind of way.
Comfy. On the other paw, Liff's just too damn brief and brutal for Philosophy: gie it laldy, our Tel, gie it pure laldy!.
Posted on Flying Cat at 17:50





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