The Pedigree Returns

July 17, 2010


“Hey! HEY! It’s Zee! Looking good, girl!”

Fucking Cave Troll.

It is always interesting, after an absence of a year, to return and discover whether or not a place, or people, have changed. A lot can happen in a year. One can find oneself. One can have an epiphany. One could forsake all earthly goods and become a Buddhist monk just outside Nottingham. One can move to Saskatchewan. And one could spend a whole year not realising that I am NOT CALLED ZEE and I AM A BOY.

We are back with The Mushroom and The Baby and also The Cave Troll and The Hippy. They live in a different house. I think The Hippy has started taking acid. But more of this later.

The ROAD TRIP only took five days, but I feel many years older, hence the radio silence. Quite frankly, I needed at least a week just to stop shaking and to lick my coat seventy two times each day just to rid myself of the smell of stale KFC. My Dad, when away from the watchful, loving, gimletty eyed glare of the Food Nazi, adopts the dietary habits of a rather fat 17 year old boy, and by Day 4 just the sight of that benign bespectacled gentleman with his red apron made me feel a bit poorly.

“I’m off to buy a Bucket, Zeebs. Back in a bit.”

A bucket? A BUCKET? Personally, I would argue that one should never buy a ‘bucket’ of food. It can only go ill. 

Unless one is a horse.

Anyhoo…

Northern Ontario is interesting. I’m not being sarcastic, either; you cross the border from Saskatchewan into Manitoba,and it goes: land land land sky sky sky, ooh, a tractor; then, about two days later, you cross the border from Manitoba into Ontario, and it goes land land land sky sky sky, oooooh, trees and hills and lakes and STUFF. I’m a fan.

 Tell you what I’m not a fan of, though.  Bears.

All through Northern Ontario, there are signs up by the roads about the bears. ‘Beware of the Bears’, one says. Fair enough. I will. Thankyou. I will, indeed, beware of the bear.  ‘Please do not feed the Bears’ says another. This I take issue with; as a sign, not as a sentiment; because feeding the bears is clearly INSANE.

Who in their right mind would willingly feed a bear? What are they thinking? ‘Oh, hello! There’s a bear. A big old brown grizzly bear. Excellent. He looks almost exactly like my stuffed toy bear at home. Ergo, I will give him this sandwich and all will be well and he will not, based on his resemblance to my stuffed toy bear at home, eat off my arm at all. ‘

I cannot think of any other type of toy that gets people confused like this when they encounter the real thing. I have yet to witness, for example, anyone trying to pick up a real life cement mixer and making a ‘vroom VROOOM’ sound, or trying to feed a house, or give a cup of tea to an octopus or any of the other things The Baby tends to do, presumably because they know to do so REALLY would be a) weird and b) dangerous. Yet the people who drive through Northern Ontario seem to need to be reminded, approximately every hundred yards, NOT to give the bears bits of their cheese cake.

Nonetheless, I liked Northern Ontario, so much so I popped out of the motel room in Kenora to have a little look. I didn’t go far, just the hotel car park. I enjoyed stretching my legs.  My Dad was less impressed, especially as he was in the bath when he spotted me out of the window and had to leg it to the carpark to fetch me, but I don’t think anyone noticed the naked Yorkshireman with a cat under his arm. If they did, they didn’t say anything.

Kenora is beautiful. Thunder Bay, our next stop, was, however, to quote my Dad, ‘ a bit pikey’. I didn’t get to to look around the carpark there, though, although I did manage to jump out of the holdall I was being carried into the hotel in just as my Dad was walking through reception, but he frigging caught me mid leap and stuffed me up his t-shirt, so no adventures in Thunder Bay for me.  Just for the record, I do not like being put in a holdall. By Day 3, the holdall was also beginning to smell of KFC. It was a damaging experience for me.

I need, thus, to work through some issues as a result of the journey, and I feel the best way for me to do this is to do some lying down. In the sun. By a pond. This is not the time to discover that The Cave Troll and The Hippy’s new neighbour have a cat. He is black too. He has a head shaped almost exactly like a mallet. He is called ‘Baby’.

If one gets a cat, a cat with a head shaped exactly like a mallet, one would think to oneself, hmm, what shall I call him? ‘Reggie’, after the Kray brother? ‘Jaws’? No, I shall call him ‘Baby’ cos that is what springs to mind when one sees a black, mallet-headed cat.

He is not nice. I would go as far as to say that he is, in fact, a bit of a bastard.

He doesn’t like the heat, though, so whilst it’s 27 degrees I think I might just have a little rest on the grass. I think I deserve that…

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