Smokey Joe

July 27, 2009


I’m building up to being able to share my journey to Canada. I’m not there yet. I do, however, think it’s an extreme case of irony that after those 20 hours next to the frigging Alsation, I land up in a house that is home to some sort of Border Collie/Alsation mix and is clearly the size of a horse. ‘Oh, he’s ooold’, they say, ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly!’. Yes he frigging would. I don’t care how old he is. Fools.

The weeks prior to my arrival here were not so good. My Dad went away to work for a while, after The Mushroom refused to go back to work after coming home with The Baby. Clearly those halcyon days when the two of them buggered off at seven in the morning and left me to watch daytime TV and meander round the house nibbling iams at my leisure were a thing of the past. They had this long conversation about it.

Dad: “We’re not coping well on the one wage, love.”

The Mushroom: “I know.”

Dad: “When do you think you might be going back to work?”

The Mushroom: “I’m not.”

Dad: “Oh.”

Anyhoo, he had to work somewhere called The Middle East for a bit and I stayed with The Mushroom and The Baby and then – and no bugger warned me about this – I went to stay for four weeks with Smokey Joe.

Smokey Joe is my Dad’s mother. I love her. She treats me very well. She buys me presents every Christmas. I was very well looked after when I stayed with her. And there is no one on this earth who smokes more cigarettes than her. I needed a spa day just to get rid of the smell.

All this before I even got in the wooden crate and got on that plane.

It took me a little while to work out what this smoking lark was. My Dad and The Mushroom used to do it. When I was a kitten it really threw me. ‘Shit, Dad’s on fire! Oh no he’s not. Oh, shit, he’s on fire again! Oh no he’s not. Shit, he’s – no he isn’t…’ – you get the idea. Then I realised folk did it for fun. Or when they were thinking. Or when they were upset. Or when they got up in the morning. Or when they woke in the middle of the night. Or when they had a coffee. Cripes, sometimes they just do it all the time. And when they’re drunk, they might as well just seal off the room and sit in a cloud of it.

So, when I arrived here, after 20 hours with that alsation and with fur stinking of Lambert and Butler, I also had to go cold turkey on a 30 a day passive cigarette habit. Unfair.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: