The 'Not Worth Reading' Post.

Hinze Dam

I was on duty in the playground yesterday and a five year old sidled up and tapped me on the leg.

“Mrs Poinker,” she blinked at me. “I was playing with Ophelia and we were playing cats and she said I couldn’t be a baby cat anymore. She said that Antigone could be a baby cat and I can’t be one.” She stopped and caught her breath, a tear welling in her left eye.

I wanted to say, ‘Can this please wait until I’ve finished eating my mandarine? I’m sick of you lot and your first world problems. Why are you pretending to be cats anyway? Cats are horrible.’ 

But I didn’t say any of that and instead, diligently walked her over to the accused Ophelia and had the child repeat her allegation.

Ophelia, sharpening her claws on a tree, paused and listened. At the conclusion of the lisped and heart-rending oration, she sighed, “Alright, you can be a baby cat then.”
The little girl immediately fell on her knees and began to lick her paws and happily miaow. 

Problem solved.

That, my friend, is high level negotiation and crisis management at its slickest. 

And the teacher of the year award goes to…

But I really don’t understand why seemingly nice, pleasant little girls want to pretend to be filthy, nasty cats. 

Take our cat as an example...

Hansel

Scotto went to a party recently but I stayed at home because I’ve finally decided that at my stage of life, parties are horrible and there is no longer a need to persecute myself.

I pondered the revelation of this ostensible backward growth in my emotional development as we kayaked around the resplendent Hinze Dam last week.

“If our cat was a human,” I called out to Scotto as I struggled to paddle against the wind, “how do you think he’d act if he was at a party?” 

(Terrible segue I know but believe me, this is how my brain works)

“He’d be like Julian Assange,” Scotto yelled back puffing. “He’d walk into the party all snooty-like, thinking he was better than everyone else.”

I mused on the comparison. My cat and Julian do have the same white hair, same sardonic sneer and the same arctic, blue eyes that appear to reflect depraved, violent visions of the afterlife.

“I bet he’d head straight for the dip bowl and stand there shovelling it down, double dipping and ignoring everyone,” I added.

“He’d stare at people with cold, malicious eyes until they made eye contact and then he’d look away in disgust,” Scotto offered. “If anyone tried to approach him they’d be waved off with a cruel, dismissive gesture.”

“Yeah,” I smirked in agreement. “And when he went to the guest loo, he’d poop in the bathtub instead of the toilet.”

Our cat has been despicably pooping in my bathtub lately despite us purchasing an extra-large litter tray for his gigantic butt.

I’m envious of our cat’s air of self-possession. He really doesn’t give a rat’s arse about what anyone thinks about him.

I wouldn’t dream of pooping in someone’s bath tub.

I wouldn’t have the self-confidence.

I suppose if I did, it would definitely curtail any future party invitations which would be ideal… but even so…

But anyway, this is why I can’t understand why pretty, sweet little girls like to play games about being rude, narcisistic and self-centred cats? It’s decidedly weird, don’t you think? 

Back in my day we pretended to be horses; a much more wholesome activity.

What did you pretend to be?

NB: This post is not in any way insinuating that Julian Assange poops in other people’s bath tubs.