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Posts Tagged ‘kindergarten committee meetings’

Like many cats, Genghis The Cat is extremely particular about the food he eats from his bowl. But when it comes to food outside his bowl, his palate is suddenly as broad as [Australian PM] Julia Gillard’s accent.

Here are just a few of the things I’ve caught him trying to eat: soggy weet-bix, peanut butter toast, popcorn, congealed sausage fat, playdough, crayons, ‘floor rice’ and watermelon.

And then there are my toes – a delicacy he is now obviously craving every morning around 5AM. I don’t take to this kindly. I mean, that hot guy who plays Marc Antony in HBO’s series ‘Rome’ could be nibbling my feet at 5AM and I’d still feel vaguely murderous. My feet are a NO GO zone between midnight and daybreak. Take note, James Purefoy!

Anyway, turns out that my toes were on the menu the morning before our recent snow holiday and so I didn’t have a whole lotta love in my heart for my so-called pet when I left. Indeed, I might normally have instructed the designated cat feeder (in this case, the Mild Mannered Lawyer) to “avoid the non-fish sachets” in the mixed box I’d accidentally bought the day before. However, my care factor was nil, as I told The MML. Which was another way of saying that “Genghis can bite my duck liver and lamb shanks arse” and that he should just SUCK. IT. THE. FUCK. UP.

Yes, I was angry.

But even amidst the red mists of my rage, I still remembered to ask The MML to keep the bedroom doors closed during our absence, in case Genghis expressed his displeasure by splatter-crapping on our pillows.

I didn’t count on the fact, though, that even cats know revenge is a dish best served cold – in this case, as cold and as the still as the lifeless body of a guinea pig I found slayed in the backyard one day after our return from holiday. Yes, a guinea pig.

I ran inside to tell my husband. “Genghis has killed a, um, porc de Guinée!” I whispered furiously, using my bad French to shelter my children from the terrible truth – about the guinea pig, that is, and not the fact I can’t speak French to save myself.

“Are you sure it’s not a ‘large mouse’?” my husband asked, using his code word for ‘rat’.

“Well, let’s just say if that’s the size of the ‘large mice’ around here, I want to move,” I replied, adding: “Although, we might have to move anyway because that thing out there is some neighbour’s beloved pet, I tell you. A BELOVED PET.”

Indeed, I could already imagine the ‘MISSING’ posters written and posted around the neighbourhood by some six year old girl in the hope that ‘Fuzzy McFuzz’ might be returned home safely and that she didn’t have to cry herself to sleep any more.

And then it struck me: the guinea pig had more than a passing resemblance to the local Presbyterian kindergarten’s pet Mr Puddles. Could it be…?

I voiced my fears to my husband. He was disbelieving. “It’s unlikely Genghis could have carried the body that far,” he said, before adding “Although I struggle to see how he managed to get the body over our back fence. I mean, it must weigh at least two kilograms…”

Which only proved my fears. When you’ve got two kilos of meat in your mouth, there’s not much difference in being able to climb a six foot fence or walk 500 metres – especially when you’ve been graced with superfeline strength by your evil overlord (Satan).

“Oh, god! I’m going to the kindergarten committee meeting on Wednesday… What will I say?” I moaned.

“It’s not Mr Puddles,” my husband said.

“Mr Puddles! Poor Mr Puddles!” I cried.

“It’s not Mr Puddles,” my husband repeated.

“What’s done can not be undone,” I philosophised, before hissing: “Now get rid of the body. Quick! Before the kids see it and let the rest of the neighbourhood know we’re harbouring a guinea pig killer and the lapcat of Satan.”

Four days later, I found myself at the committee meeting, anxiously waiting for an agenda item about Mr Puddles having gone missing and ready to confess that he was “with God now… by way of the bottom of my Sulo bin”. But the announcement never came. In fact, I realised at the end of the meeting that Mr Puddles himself had been scurrying around in his cage behind me the entire time.

Phew, I thought. He’s safe… but for how long?

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I had to admit to my friend The Mild Mannered Lawyer the other night that I’d always thought the lyrics in [improbably named 1980s Australian band] Kids In The Kitchen’s song ‘Current Stand’ were “Caught in the crossfire/ Burn bartender!/ This is the current stand”.

In a way, I wished they were the real lyrics (a quick check of the album cover confirmed they were not) because then the song would have neatly tied in with an earlier conversation we’d had that evening in which a lovely fellow had mentioned various nightclubs to us, all of which had happened to burn down. I had understandably grown concerned there was a rampant nightclub arsonist on the loose and, based on my previous (incorrect) interpretation of ‘Current Stand’, all fingers might have pointed at Scott Carne, lead singer of Kids In The Kitchen and advocate of burning bartenders. Except, as I now know, Scott was actually singing about something “burnt by its anger” and the identity of the Disco Inferno-ist remains unknown to this day.

Of course, it’s not the first or the last time that I’ve misheard something.

Take for example the other evening at the kindergarten committee meeting. I should add here, just in case there is any speculation after what I’m about to reveal, that I was stone cold sober at the time.

The kindergarten committee president, as part of the Correspondence Received section of the meeting, read out a letter that mentioned “dead lion sensitivities”. I immediately looked around the room. Nobody else had even blinked. Perhaps I’d misheard? I didn’t want to appear inattentive so I didn’t ask the president to repeat it. But “dead lion sensitivities”?? What could that possibly mean? I mean, of course we must all be sensitive about dead lions. That is a given. But why write a letter about it?

And if I had misheard it, what should that phrase have been?

Dandelion Tension Cities (urban settlements suffering social problems because all  its inhabitants had decided to give up coffee and drink  dandelion root tea instead)?

Des Lynam Self-Utilities (a kind of DIY Super Hero costume where you dress up as, er, legendary British sport presenter Des Lynam)?

Debtline Zen Nativities (an Eastern philosophical appropriation of the story of the birth of Christ during a time of global economic slowdown)?

DET [Department of Employment and Training] Frankincense Activities (self-explanatory)?

All of which are precisely the kind of things that people write to the local Presbyterian kindergarten about all the time…

Of course, it’s all too late for me to ask the president to clarify the contents of that letter. I mean, if I bring it up at the next monthly meeting, she will think me deeply strange to have given the matter so much thought over such a long period of time.

But then… I guess I could always write a letter to her about it in the meantime. That way I could ensure there’d be at least one letter on file at the kindergarten which definitely mentions “dead lion sensitivities. This suddenly seems important to me. Very very important, indeed.

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