Just call me the Hoarse Whisperer. This week a suitably seasonal cold virus left me a muted, aching snot monster, forced to communicate via hand and arm signals that cast me somewhere between a (somewhat troubled) cricket umpire and a football referee. It has also rendered me powerless to children and animals, not necessarily in that order. HP suggested helpfully that I might like to supplement my income by becoming an 0845 husky woman of the night. Frankly, I don’t think I possess the patter or the underwear, and any callers may have needed an ear trumpet and a good sense of humour to get anything out of it.
Moving swiftly on. Our last remaining cat, a Siberian Forest cat if you will, appears not have deduced that the climate of West Oxfordshire does not match that of Siberia. Every autumn his appetite, weight and fur increase tenfold (like mine – without facial hair thankfully – for chocolate at Easter), leaving him struggling to squeeze through the cat flap and hitting the fence with such force and lack of grace that it reverbs through the house. It’s surely only a matter of time before he eats Joe.
In fact, I’ll leave the last word to Sprat 3, who on celebrating the re-election of Barack Obama enquired about what would happen to Mick Wrong-Knee now? That is an answer that we would all love to know, I’m sure…
About turn patellas and rejoice, for it’s Friday.
Mrs Mackerel x
New songs from Willy Mason whose long overdue new album I am looking forward to a lot and from Ben Howard who released his new EP, Burgh Island, on Halloween. I’ve been playing it on a loop ever since; it’s much darker than his earlier stuff. I love it.