Jobs for the Boy(s)

August 6, 2010

Being accidentally left outside at night on the same night as a 100lb Rottweiler escapes from the house over the road is really very shit. I am okay purely because I can climb trees.

Staying up a tree for three hours is also very very shit.

Everyone not realising that I am FRIGGING WELL STILL OUTSIDE until ten in the morning when it’s 35 degrees Celsius is also on the shit scale.

“Have you seen Zeebs? I haven’t seen Zeebs all morning!”

“Haven’t you? He was in last night. I haven’t let him out.”

“I haven’t let him out, so he must be in.”

“Oh. Maybe I let him out. Did you not let him back in?”

“Why would I have let him back in if I had already let him back in and didn’t know that he was out again?”

I could hear this whilst the other side of the balcony door, panting. Just look out the window, you morons. I am HERE. I am VERY HOT. And my nose is a slightly different shape cos of the battering I got running up a tree escaping from a dog only devil worshippers would possibly wish to own.


The family are experiencing something of a stumbling block in the setting up of their New Life in Ontario. My Dad is a teacher. There are no teaching jobs. This is a problem, even I can see this. Ontario appears to be full of very, very old teachers who have retired but then go back to their jobs. I can see an easy way of solving this problem: kill them. Go in, slip something in their tea, job done. Or rather, job not done and job being advertised.  I’m not ageist – I’m 12, which is practically geriatric in cat terms – but there is something amiss with people retiring then going, ‘Ermmmm, actually, whilst I’m, like, LOVING the pension payments and the free prescriptions and all that elderly jazz, do you reckon I could pop back in, what, maybe five days a week? Mmm? And keep my full timetable? Okay? Excellent. In fact, I won’t empty my desk. But thanks for the party and the ornamental Polar bear. Appreciate it.’

Surely, if you’re retiring, you are too old to work? No? No, not if you’re in Ontario. It would be okay if it was a bit of supply, or filling a job that can’t be filled, but it’s not like that at all. It’s widespread and called ‘Double Dipping’. I think that sounds rude, but that’s Canadians for you.

If you’re wondering why I’m so bothered about my Dad’s job situation, I can tell you in one word: Iams. They bought me ‘President’s Choice Cat Biscuits’ the other day. I don’t  know what frigging President chose them, but it certainly wasn’t one that liked cats.

I’m nearly out of  kitty treats, too. Canadian kitty treats are lovely, albeit oddly named.

Advertising Man: So, like, hit me with your ideas, man.

Man from Cat Food: Well, my vision is that this Kitty Treat is fun…

Advertising Man: Yeah, yeah, I’m hearing you, I’m hearing you…

Advertising Woman: That’s, like, so random.

Man From Cat Food: What? Oh. Yes. Anyway, it’s fun, it’s light hearted…

Advertising Man: Like, totally. That’s like really emotional.

Advertising Woman: I’m feeling it.

Man From Cat Food: Right.

Advertising Man: What else can you give me?

Man From Cat Food: Erm, ah. Well, that’s it really. It’s a kitty treat. A fun, light hearted kitty treat.


Advertising Man: Let’s call it ‘PARTY MIX’.

Advertising Woman: That’s so AWESOME. Cos it’s like, you know, a CD, or like, something from Ministry, when, you know, it’s like, not, cos it’s a kitty treat.

Man From Cat Food: Oh dear Lord.

 I particularly like the ‘Wild West Crunch’ flavour. I like the ‘pause’ in their conversation, too. It makes me feel a bit like Harold Pinter.

Meanwhile, The Hippy appears to have become  a buddhist.


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