Image shamelessly stolen from here.
The animals have been clinging to me like their fur is made of velcro. They know something is up.
I have repacked my case 4 times now and I think I'm ready to go. Hopefully I haven't forgotten anything major.
I told jms (who left a week ago) that I was scared about flying by myself. He said "Don't worry they give you a plane"
Ha Ha.
Back soon!
Yes, Bernard Black passed away this week.
Bernard the Black Moor, not the bookstore owner - though he did drink like a fish!
Apologies to any Dylan Moran fans out there for the potentially upsetting news. Apologies to everyone else out there for the terrible joke.
Ahem. Shall I start again?
Bernard: the fish. Although a consummate professional at 'playing' dead he actually proved quite the fighter - surviving some nasty fishy disease outbreaks and outliving several tank mates over the years.
Alas, the latest bug got the better of him, despite my tank-side ministrations. It is a bit of a relief with the impending trip OS and the MIL house-sitting (she was considerably perturbed by Bernard's fake death shenanigans last time she stayed).
Some months back I swore that I wouldn't get fish again once Bernard was gone. But now I am not so sure. Admittedly the house is a little crowded with 2 people, 4 cats and a dog (tho' he is only small). Tank upkeep is unsurprisingly not my favourite task (especially with a dodgy arm - which is partly to blame for the latest disease outbreak).
But the tank light bathed the room in such a nice glow and the bubble of the filter was like a meditative white noise in one's peripheral hearing. Not quite whale song or crashing waves, but comforting nevertheless. And ever so more so noticeable now, for its absence. Watching the tank was definitely better than daytime television. Now its sits dormant, bereft of light and life.
Unfortunately I am becoming increasingly aware of the unethical practices in the pet industry. Just Google "puppy factories" or "puppy mills" for some seriously disturbing information about practices at the core of the industry. Aquarium practices are perhaps less outrageous, but just because a Goldfish costs $5 and there is 50 in the tank, shouldn't mean that their life is any more disposable.
Fish are promoted as low maintenance, instant pets. I can't tell you how many times I've seen families bundled out of the pet shop door with a tank, chemicals and a bag of fish. This is particularly offensive when the proper set up of a tank, even the most basic, takes days if not a lot longer, before live fish ought to be introduced. A bunch of (expensive) chemical additives might help fish survive, but is no guarantee. Which leads me to believe that pet stores don't give a flying fuck whether the fish live after you've handed over your cash, because you'll either be back for more to replace the ones that died, or will abandon the tank after the novelty has worn of and come back and buy a puppy.
Not to mention that the presence of rows and rows of Siamese fighting fish in water glass sized tanks makes me so angry. That is cruelty personified. The "fact" promoted by the industry that they can survive in small puddles of water is appalling. Yes, they CAN survive. Just like we CAN survive on a diet of rice cakes and water if necessity dictated it.
But surely we want more than mere survival for our pets. The reason they sit motionless at the top of the tank is because they are starved of oxygen. Put a Siamese fighting fish in a large tank, properly oxygenated, with no inappropriate tank mates - and you will see an energetic and happy fish of the most luxurious and dazzling colouring.
And who knows whether tropical fish are harvested with any respect to maintaining wild fish stocks in their native environments. Or whether breeding fancy goldfish with "aesthetic" deformities impinges on the fish's quality of life.
I guess every decision we make has ethical consequences if we dig deep enough. Responsible pet ownership is one of them, and I often wonder whether it is wise to consider our own needs of companionship, or if it is just selfishness. I am not advocating never getting another pet once our household ultimately becomes pet free. Nor can I stand on any perceived moral high ground. Our collection of animals have variously been acquired from both pet stores, breeders and rescues. I adore each and every one and don't regret taking any of them in to our home. Had pure desire won over practicality, I'd be the happy owner of chooks and (to Jms' dismay) a donkey. I'd keep bees in a heartbeat if I weren't allergic.
(Of course the local council might also have some sway in the matter too...)
So Bernard is gone, and the tank remains empty. But I am yet to dismantle it and really put some action behind my ethical convictions. A friend once commented that we ought to have kids - if only to stop us from getting way too many pets!
Hmmm. They ARE cute. Jms?? Don't kill me.
Image from here.
Breaking news is that Jms and I are going to Berlin!
It is a belated Honeymoon that has been in the pipeline for a while, but with this and that, it looked like wasn't going to happen until the very last minute.
We will also be making a much overdue visit to Norway, where my brother lives with his lovely fiance. Flights don't go Berlin - Bergen direct so we will have to make a stop over in Copenhagen (how will we survive?).
It will be the first time we will have traveled overseas together (aaaiiiieee). If the planning process is any indication, this may be the quickest way to divorce. Can the honeymoon be over before it has even begun?
And like J.F.K. I too, will be a jelly doughnut, or at least plan to sample some while I am there (though I will pass on the Minke, thank you Dr Jimothy). In the interim here are some doughnuts of another kind...
(AKA Olympic Rings Biscuits, because I couldn't wait another 4 years to make them again). Too delicious (especially without the toxic levels of food colouring)
My bestest beloved linked me to this , with the tag "... and I thought of you".
After the red veil subsided and I put down the kitchen knife, I did have to admit it was familiar turf and pretty close to home. Too close.
What is it with our brains - and why do they seem to take such joy in self sabotage?
Ordinarily, under strict laboratory conditions, I am a fairly intelligent and erudite person. But its like there is a "Random" switch that gets turned on in my head which causes gibberish to fall out of my mouth. It used to happen occasionally - you know, the odd spoonerism or Freudian slip. Normal. Human.
But now it happens A LOT.
For instance - that thing that you cut grass with? I know its called a LAWNMOWER. But in idle conversation what does my brain pop out? VACUUM CLEANER.
Pretty much 99.9% guaranteed (the .01% being the times I practice before hand to get it right). I've even tried rewiring my synapses by creating and repeating appropriate word associations. No dice.
Words with similar sound and spelling and are more excusable and unfortunately therefore more common. MELON when I mean LEMON. MUSHROOM instead of MATTRESS.
Or words of a like category. HAND instead of GLOVE. CINEMA for THEATER.
"The traffic lights up ahead are BLACK, we can cross..."
Obviously I meant RED. Certainly conceptually alike in their 'don't do it' kind of way. Perhaps that explains my brain's use of FRAGMENT instead of SNOWFLAKE. Crystallization creates both?? Work with me here!
Or there is just the plain weird: SAUSAGE instead of CIRCLE (Though technically phonetically similar to begin with - and if you cut them in half...)
At least if these 'exchanges' were of a saucier nature it would be a source of mirth and amusement, not just frustration and embarrassment.
On occasion I catch myself saying the wrong word - and quickly send a message to my mouth to say the right word - and like the three stooges trying to get through a door all at once - they jam and I end up stuttering like a skipping record.
For some reason it seems to be mainly nouns.
A further regression occurs when I can't recall the desired word and so out aloud, I scroll through the ones that do make it out of my brain until I hit on the right one or Jms figures out what I'm trying to say by deduction. Its like a shopping list version of charades.
Perhaps I'm just getting old - although I'm (technically) not mid-thirties yet, so surely that's too young for dementia? Please?
It could be an overworked mind. But idle times seem to make no difference.
I muse sometimes that I have some kind of rare, degenerative brain disorder that is eating away at my grey matter - like a worm in an apple.
Or an undiagnosed tumour. Like an episode of House, there would be that A HA! moment (after the requisite dicking about) where I can explain all my tics in one foul swoop and say "I told you so" and smile smugly.
Oh wait. Fantasizing about having a brain tumour? Um. Perhaps not.
(Though if it is fantasy "House" land, it will be fixed with a simple operation and I can go on to be Secretary General of the UN. There will be no long and difficult rehabilitation)
I could be generous and blame the pain meds. But let's be honest - this might just be personality, not acquired.
If you are a regular reader here at chez Trickle, you might appreciate that words are kinda my thing. I like using them and especially like to stretch my lexicon a little (hopefully without sounding like the nob who ate a thesaurus for breakfast).
I guess I just fear being 'that guy': dazed and confused in the supermarket, getting increasingly agitated as I yell out random words till my carer collects me and apologetically escorts me home.
Maybe I should start wearing a "Please look after this Bear" sign.
Or carry around flash cards. Lawnmower, Vacuum Cleaner, Hand, Glove ...
The family tree has been updated.
No schmancy Louis Ghost chair this time. Just my hard rubbish kitchen chair.
The only chair in the house not flocked with cat hair.
Now excuse me while I go to the supermarket. Like Mikes, I don't think there is anything "Grand" about a football match.
I try to avoid supermarkets on the weekends - I am hoping it is a ghost town.
Just me and the hum of fridges and the flicker of dodgy neon. I might even sing along with the muzak.
