Speaking of Blodwyn, she came to see me the other day and would seem to be a bit needled at the intransigence around this place. Everybody on the planet recommends me for a downgrade and a move to greener pastures, but not the Smiling Assassin, and it seems that she may be working her poison still. She wants me kept in closed prison. The fact that it is none of her business to make such recommendations seems to have been overlooked by the checks and balances that are in place to guard against such excesses, and, even when instructed by higher personages, she simply agrees, then goes ahead with her back-stabbing anyway.
So, nothing to report as far as the parole hearing is concerned. However, I fully expect to have my supporting voices there when it does take place.
At least the lock-down is over.
Boudica has a dog. I may have mentioned this before. In fact she has several dogs, although she will say that two of them belong to her son, the one who falls off bikes. Boudica's new dog is a Staffie which is currently eating everything in sight - and that includes the washing machine door handle. She bought a muzzle for the mutt but won't put it on the dog for longer than ten minutes - she says it must be uncomfortable. Well, there's the choice - muzzle the wrecking machine or redesign the house every morning.
Don't misunderstand me - I like dogs - always have a dog in the real world. A life is not complete without a family pet. Some folk prefer cats of course, or birds, or iguanas or mother-in-law. (I shouldn't have said that - I'll have complaints now.) Anyway, be that as it may, I want to talk about cats - well one cat in particular.
George.
Now I am not personally acquainted with George but I do know a little bit about him. George...well...George is George.
He is getting on a bit now, not in the best of health and is on daily medication - a bit like a few around this place. George is a settled-in-his-ways cat. He has his routines and daily doings, like everyone else, and, being old now, he doesn't want that routine or his quiet, comfortable life disrupting, and nobody can blame him for that.
You see, George is no different from all the rest of us when old Father Time creeps up on us and the Grim Reaper is giving his scythe a honing ready for the final sentence in life's story. George just wants to be left alone to think his thoughts and not have intrusions on that placid existence. He gets out of his bed each morning at his own pace, he takes his medication, goes about doing his own thing, and at night relaxes with his thoughts and probably doesn't care much what is ahead of him. The river has run its course and is winding slowly into the estuary of life, heading for the sea.
Well, I'm like George - I can smell the sea. I know it's not far away, and it shouldn't be long before I get to the beach. Like George, I've got a couple of things I would still like to do, of course - and I'll get there. I only hope that I am capable when the time comes.
Finally, as we are speaking of cats, let me tell a little story. A fellow comes home from work one day and, while he is eating his evening meal, his wife sits there talking to him.
"Hey," says she. "I saw a great thing on the telly today."
"Oh yeah?" says the husband, his face full of cottage pie.
"Yes," says she. "There was this cat, and every morning it goes out into the garden, digs a hole, does its business, and then fills the hole in again. Isn't that clever?"
"No," says he. "All cats do that."
"Not with a fucking shovel!" says she.
The Voice In The Wilderness
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