The monday musings of a crazy cat lady…
I was watching The Simpsons. He strolls into the room and plants a squidgy bundle of sellotape and wrapping paper on the bed. I look up, eyebrow cocked, and he nods towards the parcel.
After unfolding the glitter-caked paper I am reminded of that moment in Sex and the City (yes I am a teenager of the noughties who was embroiled in the wonders of American cable sitcoms, bootleg jeans and RnB), when Trey brings home a cardboard baby for his wife, Charlotte, because they can’t conceive and he deems this an appropriate novelty substitution.
Inside the paper I find a cat. Not a real cat, but one stuffed with polyester and furnished with glossy plastic eyes that follow you to every corner of the room.
I am not saying we are ‘trying for a cat’. Unless you can call yearning after the endless snapshots of a Google image search for ‘Exotic Shorthair Kittens’ trying. But my boyfriend did bring home this cuddly toy grumpy cat because I am cat-broody and unfortunately, at this moment in time, without the real thing. Polyester and plastic will just have to do…
Shakespeare has always had my admiration, but he’s earned some extra kudos today, in the wake of my painstaking attempt at writing a traditional English sonnet… (with the theme of Future and some chiasmus thrown in for good measure)
From shadows uncertain, a wreck you hauled
In spite of the grave that shrouded the eye.
It bore through the teeth so time further stalled
As it tore though the bones whilst age went by.
When twenty summers did soften the ill,
And firm dissolved what had dug so intent.
That which was irksome now deadened the chill
with which the preface of life you had spent.
I remember the rain had fallen sharp,
The streets cast their echoes with sombre dew.
Your fingers, ice as they prised mine apart,
yet temperate shards pierced the bitter I knew.
The ice within is hereafter thawing,
Warming the fire as the fire is warming.
The poetic task on this happy Friday was to write an elegy on the subject of ‘fog’, using a metaphor. Here goes…
The sight was hazed, the stature awry,
When whistling chaperoned the blindness.
Our bones would knock as sea-sick rocks,
As we tripped the dance of the inebriated.
Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt.