Busy, Busy, Busy.

August 5, 2009


“Are you busy, love?”, says The Mushroom, as she does something involving clothes and The Baby, “Can you help me?”

My Dad, who is at this moment in the midst of ‘Big Russian Tanks Fire Big Blasts of Flame At Things’, turns to her. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’m right in the middle of something.”

“You’re in the middle of ‘Big Russian Tanks Fire Big Blasts of Flame At Things’, my love. That is not ‘busy’.”, The Mushroom replies.

“Aah, yes it is. It is ‘busy’. It just is not ‘busy doing something you would consider valid’, but ‘busy’ it still is.” My Dad then pulls his special ‘I am very clever and funny’ face. The Mushroom pulls her ‘I’m about to kick you in the gonads’ face.

“And as my wife”, he continues, “you should really take an interest in my hobbies.” Now, even I know when he’s taken things too far, and thankfully he did too before The Mushroom began to throw things at him, and, pausing ‘Big Russian Tanks Fire Big Blasts of Flame At Things’,  got up to help with whatever bizarre ritual she was trying to complete.

This is what I am noticing more and more in this house. Humans are always doing something. Even when what they are doing is utterly pointless, they still make a point of doing it. Why – seriously, why –  is an intelligent man spending time sat on a chair, looking at a screen, pretending to be a Russian soldier in a quite frankly entirely unrealistic-looking tank shooting at a fairly poor simulated version of what I can only imagine is supposed to be Berlin? I can understand a lot of what humans do – cooking, cleaning, even watching TV seems fair enough – but that Russian tank thing is lost on me. If you have time on your hands, why don’t you go and catch that frigging raccoon that lives in the tree? It’s what I would do.

I wouldn’t, actually. I’ve rethought my intentions regarding that raccoon. This is because what I initially thought was a raccon was actually a reasonably large squirrel. I actually saw the raccoon yesterday morning. And it’s the size of a spaniel. So I’ve decided it’s best to let it be.

There are lots of other things the humans here do that make no sense to me at all. For example:

1. Putting bits of material on the table, and then putting plates, and then putting food. Why? I can see no practical reason why this should be done.

2. Putting bits of material around The Baby so that, I assume,  her litter goes there, as opposed to getting her her own litter tray.

3. Shaving.

4. Putting creamy things from jars onto their fur. Then, the next day, washing it off. Then putting it on again.

5. Make up. My Dad knows what The Mushroom looks like. I am at a complete loss as to why she, in front of him, puts paint on her face to make herself look a bit different. What does she expect will happen as a result? ‘My, you looked rough before but now you’ve put some beige stuff on your face and made your eyes look a bit bigger, you’re okay, so everything’s fine’? The difference pre-paint and post-paint is infinitesimal. I’m not altogether sure he notices whether she’s put it on or not.

That’s only the tip of the iceberg regarding what humans do that is ridiculous. My Dad, years ago, used to live with one of his friends, That Bastard Dave. I hated him. It was almost worth going through the torment of twenty hours next to Dolly the German Shepard to ensure I’ve got away from him. About a year and a half of my life was spent from under a set of ‘nesting’ tables watching him looking at a screen pretending to sail a ship in a room that was decorated entirely in different hues of brown. There is nothing in that set up that made sense.

As you can tell, not a lot happened today. And do you know why? Because That Black Dog slept most of the day. Outside my bedroom door. I managed a quick litter tray trip around 6 when he got his dinner but otherwise, trapped. Moreover, his suspiciously fishy breath left a distinct odour. Why is his breath fishy? Where is the fish? I’m certainly not getting any.

But tomorrow, I have plans. I’m going to follow She-Devil cat and see where she’s getting her voles, and I’m going to go and get me one which is, one has to admit, a much more logical way to spend one’s time then pretending to drive a tank.

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