Thursday, March 19, 2015
The Spruney Plangoe
Sad to say, but in my spontaneously off-the-cuff way, most of my blog posts are pre-prepared these days, much like the freeze-dried bat wings in any self-respecting vampire’s refrigerator.
But this morning, I write on the hoof.
Truly I am a centaur amongst metaphorically vampire-themed control freaks made clown fodder.
Something of a fever has paralysed the typically hare-resplendent boinginess of March.
Subtle things, little things — like having a tooth pulled by a kick ass Vietnamese lady dentist, experienceing total nasal surrender in the face of The Vile Mucus, suffering the worst excesses of The Disenchanted — and recalling the dullardity-pumped fizzog of StupidHeadTwatFace in the name of regular blogging.
Which reminds me, if ever one of your teeth is pulled by a kick ass Vietnamese lady dentist, may you not endure kiss of these words against your eardrum scant seconds after a whispered debate about the efficacy of the anaesthetic gripping your jaw like two octopus tentacles hung from a hook:
“Julie (that’s the name of the assistant, infodump buffs) — come and hold his head.”
I suppose I should count myself fortunate that Whirl Towers now boasts a new cat.
Not properly, not for real — in the wake of Geoff’s demise, I’ve inherited a leather sofa, which kind of precludes any claw-bearing pet owning opportunities this side of a clipped iguana.
Our new cat is a guest cat, shunned as a prowling feline mongrel by Girly of Whirly’s sofa-protecting sensibilities, but loved by Son of Whirl and me thanks to its smoothy purrish gingery-whiteness, ability to roll around upside down on any surface — and love of golf balls.
My house has been transformed into a zoo-cum-cattery-cum-meaow theme park.
Which is why I woke up this morning to find no pre-prepared blog post hunkering down in the Regular Whirlitude silo.
Also: why you ended up with this offering (and maybe ran a milo)...