Great Expectations

September 2, 2009


The Cave Troll appears to have finished working with MC Hardcopy, the Polish rapper, and had a new ‘rock band’ in. They are about nineteen and have a lot of tattoos, but still take their shoes off at the door. I like that. It makes me think that despite all their swearing and posturing, their mums still wash their pants and they probably attend church on a Sunday. They spent the day recording stuff downstairs in the cave.

“I’m rusting like a flower left out in the rain!”, they sang.

“What?”, says my Dad as he washes the dishes, “Rusting like a flower? Flowers don’t rust. And they like rain. Flowers thrive on rain.”

“It’s poetry, man”, says The Hippy, as she floats through the house, “It’s like a metaphor.”

“How can something be like a metaphor?”, he asks, “Surely it is just a metaphor. If it is like a metaphor, then it’s a simile.”

The Hippy nods. “I hear you, man.”, she says, and goes out to the porch.

“I’m floating like a canon, never going to fade!”, they continue to sing.

“What?!”, my Dad asks, head in hands, “Argh, it just doesn’t make any sense! How can a canon float? It doesn’t float!”

“It’s okay, love.”, says The Mushroom, rubbing his back, “It’s all alright.”

“But they’re musicians!”, he wailed, “They’re paid to write stuff, aren’t they? And it’s just such bollocks. It defies the most basic of scientific rules. In both lines!”

I think my Dad is getting cabin fever. He gets it every summer, towards the end of the holidays, when it’s time for him to go to work. I have to admit, though, even to my feline ears, that song is utter shite.

The Hippy’s ‘dealer’ came round today. I got quite excited when I heard about this, as I have watched quite a lot of crime drama on TV. You’d be surprised what’s repeated at half three on a Sunday morning, in the days when my Dad used to come home sozzled with a kebab and fall asleep in front of the TV. See, if I were a dog, I’d have eaten those kebabs and then had a poorly bottom. Those kebabs were made entirely of badness. I’m not a dog. I didn’t touch them. Sometimes, my own superiority is almost a burden.

Anyhoo, there I was, expecting this bloke, not unlike Gary Oldman’s character in ‘True Romance’, to swagger in, do his ‘deal’ and maybe light up a fat one. He would say things like, ‘yo, bitch!’ as  a greeting and smell vaguely of a combination of patchouli and gun powder. He would be frightening and unpredictable and he would maybe eat the dog. I sat on the porch, braving the magical powers thereof, in anticipation. Instead, up the path wobbled the most rotund lady I have ever seen, dressed head to toe in plaid, named Elizabeth. Elizabeth is a church organist and retired music teacher. And she is also The Hippy’s dealer.

In no film I have ever seen has a dealer been a church organist. Nor have I ever seen a dealer arrive not only with drugs, but with homemade shortbread cookies. She arrived, they hugged, The Hippy made them both tea, they nibbled shortbread, Elizabeth talked about her children, and then away she went.

Does this mean, thus, that drug dependency has reached every branch of Canada? Is everybody on drugs except for me? Am I on drugs and no-one’s told me? I put a lot of trust into those Iams. I don’t see them being made. It could happen.

Not all surprises are disturbing. As I was cat-napping on the bed this afternoon, The Mushroom, whilst The Baby played in her cot, snuggled up to me.

“Love you, Zeebs”, she said, and stroked my ears. I knew she did, but it’s nice to be told.

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One Response to “Great Expectations”

  1. face said

    So, canon. That’s church law, isn’t it? It might float, depending on what it was written on.

    But no, the lyrics are pretty much a load of arse.

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