What I Did On My Holidays

Allow me to clear up one point, a factual inaccuracy if you will:  I did not get lost;  I did not stow away in the back of a lorry; I did not meet a grizzly end under the wheels of a car or be abducted by a lonely little old lavender-smelling lady with long grey hair in a bun.  Whisper this quietly: I ran away.

I needed a break from the rottweiler look-alike thug down the road and I fancied a change of scenery anyway (the same old stripey-cushioned chairs to slouch in, the same old 5* food; the same old fingers up and down my spine: it all becomes so stale after a while) so I and my red-spotted handkerchief hot-footed it as fast as my three legs would take us.  It was only a hop, skip and jump across the stream and up the hill to a hotel near where I'd stayed last year.

Very pleasant it was too.  The management was friendlier and the service and food were excellent, in fact  I've already made a provisional booking for next July.  I was waited on hand and foot and because the staff grow Aloe Vera in their own herbal garden all my cuts and grazes could be tended on the spot.

However, all good things come to an end, as they say, and this morning what do I hear but my name being called.  When I signed in, I didn't tell anyone my real name so I knew it could only mean one thing: I'd been rumbled.  I knew I should never have believed them when they said micro-chipping was for my own protection!  I didn't want it to look as though I hadn't missed the Old Stick so I hopped down from the sun lounger and ran as fast as I could to be scooped up (how undignified) in welcoming arms.  I have to admit, it was quite satisfying to know I'd been missed, but really, must these humans be so sentimental?

After a frightful journey in some sort of cage, I've reacquainted myself with the schmucks who haven't been on holiday yet, had a wonderful meal and a long snooze.  Unfortunately, you can't sneeze in this house without someone spotting you - talk about surveillance society, you don't know the half of it and, believe me, she doesn't need cctv - so when I woke up I found the Old Stick standing over me, aloe vera in hand.  Hello, she smiled, look what I've got, and she opened her palms to show a huge pile of pinky aloey globby jelly which she rubbed all over me until I looked like a male model in an Armani ad.  Uh-oh.  I won't be going out on the town tonight looking like this.

Ten minutes later and the Old Stick went cross-eyed and zonked out again so I thought I'd see what this machine does.  I have to say I'm not impressed.  I've been looking for 'God'.  I know he's here somewhere because whenever the OS turns it on and reads what someone called Gordon Brown has been saying she says, "Oh, my God!"  Perhaps it's him; perhaps it's Brown who's the God, but he doesn't look like it to me - too much dandruff and something prozacean about him.

I'd also like to know who F*ckity-f*ck-f*ckwit and B*ll*x Bob are but I suppose they will have to wait for another day because she's stirring.  You watch - she's addicted; it will be straight to the kettle and a teabag.

Here's a video of one of my favourite pieces of music, Duetto Buffo di Due Gatti, by Rossini - keep an eye out for the cute ginger hottie.  (Don't tell the Old Stick though because she hates this duet - I can't think why, it isn't in the least bit annoying):

I miaowt be back so I'll just say, 'hasta la huego'.
Suki Dooks