Monday, January 29, 2007

In my new capawcity as ballet reviewer...

...the other day we switched on The Sleeping Beauty, performed by The Royal Ballet, in the middle of the last act, not having realised that the TV broadcast started at 4pm. And not a moment too soon: we were just in time for the real star turn: the pas de deux of Puss in Boots and the White Cat.

Jess told me that usually this exquisite number is a lot funnier than those on-screen cats allowed it to be. But what do you expect? Cats have a way of putting on their best behaviour when there are cameras around. Apparently the oboes, too, usually have a high old time, camping up the score with feline yowls, but again they must have had their eye on posterity.

What puzzles me most of all, however, is the placement of the Bluebirds' pas de deux immediately after the cats. Any bluebird worth its salt would fly for its life if there were two self-respecting kitties anywhere nearby. Mr and Mrs Flutterfeet wouldn't stand a chance. Just as well we never see on TV what goes on backstage at the ballet...

The Wolf would gobble up Red Riding Hood, Puss in Boots and his female friend would be trying to kill and eat the Bluebirds, the Bluebirds would be flitting about avoiding certain death and scaring any ladies with Birdophobia, the two-girls-one-boy trio would be scandalising everyone by coming out as a menage-a-trois, the Queen would be having a near breakdown trying to update the court fashions by 100 years in time for the wedding, Prince Florimund would be in therapy because he didn't believe in fairies before all this happened, and Princess Aurora would find a quiet corner for a little snooze...

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Des pattes sur la neige

Jess has complained to me that there's some confusion between her blog and mine: this estimable site chronicles my recent unfortunate constriction to the interior of the present mansion, while hers describes paw-prints in the snow, as composed no doubt by one's favourite maestro Clawed Depussy.

So here's what happened. After the autumn debacles with Maurice and Big Ginge on various sides of various fences, we had one trip to the vet too many. After assurances from said vet that most cats are quite happy to stay indoors after around 3 weeks' acclimatisation, and will willingly use litter trays due to natural and admirable fastidiousness re bodily functions, They decided to lock the cat flap. A vile grey plastic Thing, its tray filled with bits of whatever they make this stuff out of, materialised in front of it.

Heck, this is meant to be clean? What planet are these people on? They expect a self-respecting feline to return to the same site over and over again for one's daily performance? Dearie me. I'd like to see them try if someone removed their flush facility.

Now, cats are possessed of one very important secret weapon. The claws and the teeth have their uses, as does the natural gift for running extremely fast and climbing things. But the real big gun is concealed safely in our bladder and can be applied at will, to devastating effect. It's wet, smelly and disgusting, and makes women in particular suffer neurotic spells and nightmares when it's found in places it shouldn't be. Such as her favourite cushion, his leather armchair, or the stove. Oh yes, the stove. Well, the stove gets cleaned every day, so what's the problem? Hehehehehe.

So finally They unlocked the cat flap. Now everybody is happy again.

Friday, January 19, 2007

What do you do when...

...your owner, who you really love even you'd never let her know that, starts waxing lyrical about other cats?

Last week, Jess went to have lunch with a friend who's into Korngold. But instead of returning full of useful (or even useless) information about the anniversary celebrations planned for this year, apparently the 50th anniversary of EWK's death, she was full of stories about 'Pip' and 'Tania', the guy's two beloved Maine Coon pussycats. Vast, fluffy, and oh so clever. Tania, it seems, weighs 8 kilos. They look a bit like the picture above...

I beg to complain. I am a mere 4.5 kilos and the vet keeps saying I'm overweight, so They never give me as much food as I want. Then they wonder why I try to steal the remnants of their fruit yoghurt. grr.