Food for Thought

August 21, 2009


New neighbours have moved in to the house next door but one to ours. I know this, because they called round to introduce themselves. They brought a ‘flan’. It was beige and did not look like anything I would want to eat. It had pears or something on it. Needless to say, That Black Dog spent a huge proportion of the afternoon standing near the flan. Now, what is that about? That Black Dog wants to eat the flan. Not, necessarily, because he particularly likes flan, but because it is food and the dog will eat anything. The flan is in his reach. He just needs to stretch his neck a tiny amount and there, he’s got the flan. But he doesn’t. He just sits there. Looking at the flan. Trust me, if I wanted the flan it would be gone by now.

Anyway, the visit from the Flan People allowed me the opportunity to find out more about The Hippy and The Cave Troll as they, in turn, introduced themselves. The Cave Troll works, he says, in ‘The Music Business’. This has got to be the vaguest job title I have ever heard. The Flan People got very excited about this, and Mr Flan went on to talk about some band he was in in his twenties. The Cave Troll pretended to be interested. This was all very odd. I don’t recall anyone getting excited when, for example, That Bastard Dave told people he worked in ‘The Accountancy Business’, nor did he call it ‘The Accountancy Business’, he just said, ‘I’m an accountant’, nor did people then talk about how, in their teens, they did some maths. I am stumped if I know what the difference is, other than an assumption that ‘The Accountancy Business’ involves less shouty Polish men trying to make a very bad rap record.

The Hippy is, she says, The Cave Troll’s manager. She is also a singer. At this point, I became very confused. Are these jobs? Now, they have a house, and there’s always lots of food and there’s nice furniture and a pool and that, and I have lived for long enough to know that you get these things by having a job, and a job entails you actually leaving the house and doing something for which people see fit to pay you money with which you buy the house and the food and the furniture and the pool. They don’t leave the house. Well, they leave the house to go out and do stuff, but they certainly don’t go out to do jobs. So, how do they get the money to pay for the house and the food and the furniture and the pool? This is a mystery.

Anyhoo, even though the flan looked frigging horrible, I liked the fact that they brought food. Only humans and cats seem to do that. When I like people, I bring them a rodent. Sometimes a bird. You’d be amazed at how people turn their nose up at it. I suppose it’s like me and that flan. But a rodent is a toy and a meal, so even if they didn’t want to eat it, they could have a kick about. They never do, though. Odd.

It is through food, I have decided, that The Mushroom is displaying most of her newly found hippy credentials. My poor Dad. There’s nothing my Dad loves more than pizza. He’s also very partial to a burger. Tonight, however, he was offered this: wild rice with some steamed vegetables and an organic soya sausage. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so very disappointed. Oh yes I have. Today, at breakfast.

“I’m starving!”, says my Dad, yawning and ambling his way to the kitchen. He kisses The Mushroom, whose hair is now getting absurdly long. Perhaps she is growing it in order to save money on a winter coat. “What’s for breakfast?” I remember a time when my Dad got his own breakfast. This was before The Baby. Before long, I reckon he’ll be making his own breakfast again.

“Granola”, replies The Mushroom, pouring what looks very like bird food into two bowls.

“What the frig is granola?”, replies a suddenly much less perky Dad.

“Oats. Rolled oats, pretty much. With skimmed milk. You don’t fancy that?”, replies The Mushroom.

My Dad sighs, with an air of resignation and deepening depression. “No.”, he says, “Of course I don’t.”

“What would you like instead?”, she asks, clearly impervious to his pain.

“Salt. Salt and sugar and lard. And maybe some brown sauce.”

The Mushroom laughed, but I know my Dad, and know he meant it. Hoorah for the pack of six all butter croissants he has stashed in the bedside cabinet, then.

On a brighter note, I got a new flavour of Iams today, and I rather like them. A bit samey samey in terms of texture, but can’t complain. That Black Dog had some, but I weed on his kibble whilst he was asleep, so all’s fair.

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2 Responses to “Food for Thought”

  1. Dave said

    Outstanding work Dino…… What name will you use to publish when I kill Zeebs….

  2. Jane said

    I got as far as “kick about” and then to go away for a while to stop laughing. Ace.

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