A Tale of Two Hippies

August 9, 2009

“Hey, Zee”, growled The Cave Troll, “How’s it going, girl?”

Zee? ZEE? Since when have I been a Hell’s Angel? And whilst yes, I am indeed a very pretty cat, I am, for the last time, Troll Boy, a frigging HE! I do not know how I am supposed to get this fact across, short of grooming my areas right in front of him and, frankly, dignity prevents me from such crude measures.

The Cave Troll was not the only human in the house talking nonsense today.

“Shit, man!”, said The Mushroom as she looked around the bedroom for her shoes, “Where are they?”

“‘Shit, man’?”, asks my Dad, “That’s the third time today you’ve used this expression. And, my love, it makes you sound a little bit like a tosser.”

The Mushroom pauses and glares. “I wasn’t aware I was using it. And I seem to recall a period when you worked at that dodgy school in Kidbrooke when you were using the word ‘man’ all the time.”

My Dad looks mildly embarrassed. “That was different.”

“Why?”, asks The Mushroom, “Because you is a gangsta?”

“Anyway, don’t you go turning into The Hippy now.”

And that’s the thing. She is.

Before The Baby, I wouldn’t say that The Mushroom showed any signs of hippiedom at all. But it would appear that some sort of gradual metamorphisis is taking place. Very long hair? Check. Floaty clothes? Check. Unemployed? Check. Hanging about with your child all the time and doing stuff like sitting in the garden with aforementioned child making daisy chains and singing? CHECK CHECK CHECK! The only ways in which The Mushroom is different from The Hippy is that The Mushroom makes these exaggerated coughing sounds whenever anyone who has stood next to a cigarette in the past week comes anywhere near her (oh, the hypocricy. I distinctly remember a time when The Mushroom smoked so many cigarettes the air in our house was permenantly blue), and she is also mighty fussy about eating food that is clearly off, which The Hippy is not. Otherwise, though, it’s frightening. Perhaps I was too hasty in ruling out the use of magic in this house. Perhaps it is The Hippy after all who is up to some sort of trickery, although I find it hard to imagine her capable of concentrating long enough to actually hatch any sort of dastardly plan but, you know, I’ve been wrong before.

They’re hanging around together a fair bit too, The Hippy and The Mushroom. I reckon they’re only a day or so away from holding hands, lighting incense sticks and swaying together to Joni Mitchell. My poor Dad. He will not be happy. Only yesterday I found he had a stash of 24 mini-donuts under the bed, hidden there in quiet protest at the split bean salads he is being forced to eat.

“I need dirty food, Zeebs”, he murmured as he stealthily rammed three into his mouth, “I need salt and sugar and saturated fats.” I attempted a look of sympathy but I’ve been eating nothing but Iams since we got here so frankly I think he’s got a bit of a cheek.

So, a plan needs to be hatched to prevent The Mushroom going headlong into hippiedom. I have limited powers, but here’s what I intend to do:

1. Whenever I see a book by bed with any kind of hippy title (examples include, ‘The Green Baby’, ‘Baby Led Weaning’, ‘Attachment Parenting’), wee on it.  

2. Whenever The Mushroom uses the word ‘man’ in a context that is unacceptable (so for example, she can say, ‘I saw this man at a shop’ but cannot say, ‘Good morning, man’), wee on her handbag.

3. Whenever I see The Mushroom go anywhere near an insence stick,  wee to distract her.

Admittedly, there is little variation in my methods, but I don’t have much of an arsenal at my disposal so this will just have to do. The Mushroom’s Howard Hughes-esque attitudes to cleanliness should ensure some modicum of success, anyhoo, although I’m not altogether sure she’ll be able to work out the correlation between saying ‘man’ and me weeing on her handbag. Worth a shot, though.

Next job, persuade The Cave Troll that I am a boy and my name is Zeebling. Humph.


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