While I was baking butterfly cakes for our good friends Catherine and Martin, who are also our neighbours at Number Seven, I was thinking about our once beloved pet, Jess the cat. He was half feral, extremely clever, very masculine (even after the operation he maintained his macho swagger) and what he lacked in the ability to show or receive affection he more than made up for in character and personality. In fact he often showed a kind tolerance for his owners, like the time he came home with a nasty cut above his right ear and, knowing full well that I would not be taking him to an expensive vet, Jess permitted me to minister to his wound with tea-tree oil, cotton wool and a bandage made from an old white sheet; Bless his heart, he went outside and returned some minutes later looking like a violated Egyptian mummy. Unwittingly, our marvellous cat was an advocate of the old adage, “Laughter is the best medicine” – admittedly, he didn’t realise he was being funny when, hearing the familiar snap at the end of a small glass tube containing his flea treatment, he reversed as we advanced, and he nearly walked backwards up the kitchen wall.

Poor Jess the cat met an untimely and tragic end, not guarding his territory or seeing off the marauding rats which had been so prevalent that year, but as a result of the poison one neighbour had laid down in his garden for those same rats. My friend Catherine was the person who found him in the long grass.

“Jess is dead,” Catherine blurted out and cried on that summer evening some twelve years ago.

“Oh no!” said Chris and I in unison, “But we saw her only yesterday!”

“Not my Jess (Catherine’s daughter) – your Jess… the cat!”

Therefore it was with great relief that we became aware that the dead body in Bill Robinson’s garden was that of poor Jess the cat. I shall never forget the look of agony on his face, his missing teeth (that were hardly noticeable in life), the huge size of his stiff body and the dead weight. And we’ll never forget the burial… What is one supposed to do with a big dead cat?

Chris and I thought it would be nice to bury Jess up on Haldon Moor, about four miles from our home in Dawlish. Unfortunately, the topsoil on Haldon Moor is just a few inches thick. Numerous efforts with a pick and spade in different spots revealed there was a greater likelihood in starting a fire than digging a hole deep enough to hold our dear departed for the substrate is all flint. Hence, in the absence of a hole (and perhaps due in part to some primeval urge), we decided to build a traditional Viking funeral pyre of old logs; we agreed not to set the pyre alight (although the task would have been simple enough with all that flint around) and instead, covered the pyre with more heavy logs to keep our cat’s body safe from any wild animals. As Chris and I – bearing a pick, spade, garden fork and two black rubbish sacks – came out from the wooded area to where our car was parked we noticed a cyclist had stopped and was looking at us very intently… and suspisciously.

“Just burying the cat,” called out Chris as nonchalantly as possible while he loaded the boot with the tools.

The cyclist looked very grave.

Now if you’re wondering why I was thinking about Jess the cat whilst I was baking cakes for Catherine and Martin… Well, when we met up with Catherine out by our gate this morning, and we asked her how she was, our friend seemed rather perturbed.

“Not the best, actually,” Catherine began, “you see, Martin and I have been feeding Jane and Rollo’s cats for them while they’re away, and when I went in the other morning I noticed straight away that their big ginger cat was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. At first I thought he was asleep but then I thought he seemed rather large and stiff…”

“Oh dear…” I said.

“Yes, quite,” Catherine knew we understood. “What do you do with a dead cat? They’re so…”

“Big and heavy,” I nodded.

“Yes, Rollo suggested we put him in the freezer but….” Catherine paused.

“No! Have you seen ‘Doc’ Martin’?” I took up the pause.

“Yes! Not with food in a freezer. Martin buried him…”

“Not up on Haldon?” Chris and I asked together.

“No, we remembered about your experience with the flint and buried him in their garden,” said our friend ruefully.

So I made them some nice butterfly cakes to help cheer them up.

As you may remember from one of my previous posts, these days I’m something of a vexillologist, which doesn’t mean that I study how to vex people (I manage to do that quite naturally at times), rather… Vexillology is the “scientific study of the history, symbolism and usage of flags or, by extension, any interest in flags in general.” The word is a synthesis of the Latin word vexillum (“flag”) and the Greek suffix -logia (“study.”) I fall into the latter category. In fact I collect flags from around the world – not actual flags made of material but the little flags which appear on my website stats informing me, at a glance, of the various countries that the visitors to my site come from. 

For some time now the Russian flag has appeared almost daily on my stats, making me think that I have an avid Russian fan (it is so nice to be modern, multicultural and sophisticated!); of course, there could be lots of Russians hitting on my site… a different one each day, but I prefer the notion of my one devotee. So whoever you are, Добро пожал (welcome) and Спасибо (thank you) for being a regular.

Speaking of Russia, my son James took Russian as one of his foreign languages when he was a schoolboy at Torquay Grammar. One evening we were watching an old Bond film together (can’t remember which one but it may have been “From Russia with Love”) when one of the bad guys spoke in Russian and there weren’t any subtitles.

“I understood that Mum!” Jim seemed surprised.

“Oh, Jim,” I began, rather proud of my twelve-year-old genius, “really? How clever you are!”

“Don’t get too excited,” he laughed, “he only told him to sit down!”

Which reminds me of my own extensive knowledge of the Arabic language… Didn’t you know that I speak Arabic? Have you seen the film “True Lies”? Perhaps you’ll remember the bit when the Mercedes is careering over the bombed bridge and Jamie Lee Curtis is fighting with the female Middle Eastern antiquarian-arts dealer inside the car? And the bad-girl art dealer calls out, “Aetini!” Well, I know what she’s saying – “Give it to me!” Now really, there’s no need for you to be so very impressed; one of my dearest old friends, an urbane Egyptian, once taught me “the only Arabic words you need to know when you’re in the desert” – “Aetini ma’!” “Give me water!”, of course.

A сейчас до свидания! Bye for now! (Isn’t the Internet wonderful?)

Did you know that today is World Poetry day? No, I didn’t either. Furthermore, had you known earlier, a hand-written poem would have entitled you to a nice cup of coffee in certain cafes around the world. Shame I didn’t realise this at the beginning of the day but I bet we don’t have a participating cafe in dear old Dawlish anyway (even if we are becoming more cosmopolitan). Besides, I’ve been far too busy painting and decorating to spare time for drinking coffee or poetry writing.

However, here is a little something in recognition of the day. I’m no poetess but occasionally I have been moved to jot down a few rhyming lines, especially in times of extreme sadness or… hilarity. The poem below came to me as I walked back to my brother Bill’s house from Mannippi Parklands, Tingalpa, Brisbane. It was a few years ago when the park had been flooded and the mosquitoes were taking over the world. (Incidentally, in case you aren’t Australian, Mortein is a brand of mosquito repellent much despised by “Louis the fly”!)

        RAP-BAG MOSQUITA

I’m a motor-mouth mosquita,

I’s a monster born of flood,

I hate da sun,

I likes da rain,

Most of all-

I loves yo’ blood!

I is savvy,

Not a sucker,

I tells ya that up front,

Got a razor-sharp syringe-

Could be worse, don’ whinge-

Ma weapon could be blunt!

Spray away to yo’ heart’s delight

An’cover yo’sel with cream,

I waits all day,

I got all night-

Aint “afraid of the man

With the can

Of Mortein”!

Cos I’s a different breed a mosquita,

Immune to “Rid” and “Stop”,

Get through clothes,

Wi’ ma steely nose

And, yo man,

 I’s extremely hard to swat!

~~~~~~~~~

World Poetry Day Info’

World Poetry Day is a celebration of poetry, literature and free speech, observed by UNESCO every year. The day is aimed at encouraging creativity, inspiring the teaching of poetry and restoring a dialogue between poetry and other arts, such as theatre, dance and music.

PEN International also uses the day to highlight the imprisonment, murder and abuse of poets, writers and journalists around the world.

“By paying tribute to the men and women whose only instrument is free speech, who imagine and act, UNESCO recognises in poetry its value as a symbol of the human spirit’s creativity,” says Irina Bokova, director-general of UNESCO.

“By giving form and words to that which has none – such as the unfathomable beauty that surrounds us, the immense suffering and misery of the world – poetry contributes to the expansion of our common humanity, helping to increase its strength, solidarity and self-awareness.”

When is it?

World Poetry Day is marked on 21 March. The date was chosen during UNESCO’s 30th session, held in Paris in 1999.

How can you pay for coffee with poetry?

Austrian coffee company Julius Meinl has announced more than 1,000 of its outlets around the world will offer coffee drinkers the chance to pay for their beverage with a poem. You can find a map of all the participating stores on the Meinl Coffee website. Last year, coffee drinkers from 1,153 coffee houses in 27 countries paid for their coffee with a poem.

On last year’s scheme, CEO Marcel Löffler said: “We are proud that more than 100,000 people who live in different places of the world, have different interests and jobs and ideas, and talk different languages, still have something to share: their hearts. They embraced emotions, slowed down and replaced the normal currency with poems. On March 21st, coffee lovers gathered from around the globe.”

To be honest with you I may have looked a bit odd yesterday – cute perhaps, but unusual to say the least; you see I’ve been doing a spot of painting and decorating this week (ever since we returned from our holiday in Nerja, Southern Spain) at my sister Mary’s flat down the road and, of course, you don’t wear your best clothes for messy jobs. Hence I had opted to wear some of my old but colourful clothes – bright orange jogger bottoms (spoilt for normal use by a few drops of blue paint when I painted our railings last year), a pink top with puff sleeves and a yellow flouncy sundress over the top. Before stepping out of the house into the sunshine I donned a pink jacket, my new pink floral knapsack and my new floral sunglasses (the latter two being purchases from one of the cheap Chinese shops in Nerja and well worth every Euro for the smiles and nods of approval that they had attracted).

A few metres from our gate I was greeted by a line of happy workmen who are currently widening the pavement to make a cycle-path (that’s often how we do it in England); the bearded man operating the digger turned and smiled his hello, and three other men with hand tools also stopped and looked up from their work to say “Good morning” as I approached on the other side of the red barriers. I was suddenly struck by the fact that they all wore bright orange trousers and fluorescent yellow/green jackets – not at all dissimilar to my own colour scheme.

“Hey,” I said, glancing down at my outfit, “I match you – I could come and work for you!”

“Yes,” said the tallest man who had lovely dimples and perfect white teeth, “but we wouldn’t get much work done – would we?”

Well, I was rather taken aback, mainly because the young man could not have been more than thirty years old. Of course, I was flattered and after the initial gush I thought for a moment what a good job it was that I’d worn my sunglasses which, aside from being pretty, hide the crows feet around my eyes.

“No we wouldn’t,” I replied (just to let him know that I took his comment as a compliment), “but I must be off as I have painting and decorating to do.”

Four hours later I met the workmen again as I was going home.

“You haven’t been painting,” said the tall young man.

“No,” agreed the old man beside him who must have been in his late forties (it’s all relative), “you’re far too clean!”

“I’m just a good painter,” I laughed, “but I’m sure I have some spots on me.”

“No, we don’t believe it,” they joshed.

“Well look at that,” I said, pointing to a big splodge of white on orange half-way up my thigh.

“Now you’re just teasing us,” grinned the handsome young worker while the older man nodded.

I had to walk by the happy band of workers again this morning (still wore my sunglasses despite a lack of sunshine).

“You’re still teasing us,” they said.

I laughed with them. I, too, still thought it was funny – and I was still wearing those orange pants with the splodge. After a long and busy day of work on the flat there are a few more spots now. I wasn’t teasing – honest!