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The Ham really seems like the centre of the universe. You oughta be proud of yourself Lucas, I love your blog, I’m ready to move there~!
Vanessa Berry rocks!
hey lucas… I feel like I know you I have been following your blog it takes me on a journey every afternoon.
I’m not from your side of the bridge (i’m on the North shore) and was lost the other day and worked out where I was when I saw the roller skating rink and office works… who needs maps when we have art…
So thanks for helping this little lost chicken find her way!!
The first thing you notice about a Muffin on Andreas Street, is, that inside that luscious blend of ginger with subtle white marshmallow hints is a heart of purr gold. Now, I love the taste of a great latte BUT the taste of a great latte is improved only by the accompaniment of a truly delicious Muffin … and she is!
Muffin is my neighbour’s cat, she’s so light and fluffy she poses a direct threat to the aussie-owned Greens whose muffins (by all their names) may be 97% Fat Free but unlike this Muffin can’t boast a definite reprieve on the hips. But, I digress.
An anonymous bard once said, “For a man to truly understand rejection, he must first be ignored by a cat.” I know. Really, I do. Rather, I used to. We have a Sunday ritual, Muffin and me. We’ve taking to dancing.
Particularly lately, in these incipient autumnal noons. They provide an ideal backdrop. Atypically less Shakespearian than I’d prefer, but then, this is dancing NOT drama. Our signature dance is the ‘sham-rock.
This is no eXtreme Hip Hop, Popping, Locking, Cardio Funk or Urban Cheer dancing, it’s more your glide-together, glide-together, tippy-toe-out-of
-reach sort of thing. Purr one two three, back one two three, purr dribble dribble purr.
Muffin is the only cat on Andreas Street whose name I truly know, there are others, but they’re a conspiratorial mob so I’ve taken to naming those ones myself … like
I first met him sprawled out on the floor of my lounge soaking up the afternoon rays. He looked perfectly at home. So perfectly in fact that I
felt guilty for intruding. He looked ‘happy as’ so I called him Larry. Makes sense. Well to me anyway.
He arrives via the missing 14th paling on the back wooden fence. We haven’t had a formal introduction yet, but we will, one day. He has a Glaswegian air about him, burly, no nonsense. The first thing he mewed was, “howzitgaun?” It was a dead giveaway. But it was a shock too.
I vaguely remember blathering some welcoming felicitation to which he growled, “Awayan’boilyirheid” which loosely translated means, “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop talking nonsense!” And so I will …
Coming to live in the ‘sham has proved a delight. If you’re interested, I have other Cat’o’nine Tales.
Cheers, Gail Penney
P.S. Come and have a cuppa sometime.