“DiazePan-Am”

The pain of travelling, and that is undeniable, is significantly lessened, nay, extinguished by the wonder that is diazepam. However, there exists on this fair earth a sister substance, clonazapam, which, far from being a member of the Taliban, is just that little bit stronger; it takes roughly 20mg of the former substance to place me in a gentle cocoon of escapism, floating both metaphysically and physically above the clouds, take 4mg's of clonazapam and you wouldn't be able to hear Sarah Palin orgasm. My flight from Lima to Amsterdam and from there to England was one long glorious kip. I awoke to the the calming voice of the captain: “We are now approaching...the weather is shit,” in essence informing us that my fellow passengers and I had made a terrible mistake in leaving our place of departure. “You fools, this is what you have lying ahead of yourselves. You could have stayed in exotic bliss but instead you elected to come here, congratulations.” The air stewardess feared waking me from my self induced coma - three meals we are entitled to, I received one. I have no doubt the comatose dribble from the corner of my mouth served as some form of a 'Do not disturb' sign.

The gates of arrival and departure seem to me to be of one and the same thing - similar sentiments are displayed at both ends; I left to mild teariness, and arrived to the sounds of a similar tune: following the emotional roller-coaster that is baggage collection, the butterflies start to flap around in my tummy; I look a little worse-for-wear, which calls for adjustments in the toilet – during which people look at me as if I have just finger-fucked their cat; it doesn't help that I am shirtless, sock-less and with head under a hand drier.

Having just spent the last eighteen hours touching/in contact with people, I happen to be strolling alone now, past the last security gate and around 'the' corner that is obligatory at every arrival gate – first put to test in Croydon Airport, 1928, so as to create suspense. A couple of teary faces greet me and my brother states he “was not” crying; my sister asks, “why are your eyes red?” I laugh, we all laugh – it is funny. I am eyed up meticulously for signs of damage or a half Argentinian love child – my mother's greatest fear – before being merited with the stamp of approval: “Well, you're all in one piece, and that's what matters.” Of course that's what fucking matters, honestly what sort of sentence is that? You are suggesting there was a distant possibility of my arriving in separate parts, figuratively in pieces – the victim of Cubism-obsessed natives.

Life back to normal...

The prodigal son has returned; I am Surrey-Kent border's living equivalent to Sir Francis Drake, sailing through the narrow-minded tides that lap against my beautiful boatlette; to family, and friends of, I am but an exotic piece - an African fruit bowl bought on a business trip years ago. Attention is food for the soul but not all of it tastes sweet; questions are continually asked of my brave travels, and I find myself growing weary:

“So, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“You know..(I did not)...'it'.”

“Ah, 'it', of course. You mean South America, how was South America. So, essentially you have boldly requested that I sum up the last two years of my life and a continent that consists of around twelve countries, all of which contain rich and defining differences, in the answer I am to provide you with?”

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

“It was good, thank you.”

"Getting the Most From Your Pritt Stick"

The following extract is taken from remaining time Spears and I spent in Comodoro Rivadavia:

With a bus due to take off at 22:45 we had time to kill and so to another grassy knoll we headed, by 20:30 we were sitting, cross-legged (I end up looking like a new born foal packed up into a briefcase when sat in this fashion) under a tree filled with very small parrots that took it upon themselves to drop their faecal bombs of discontent on us, no doubt acts of anger with the fact that we were boiling their unborn relatives. Six eggs we boiled. That's just what we do, boil eggs, act impulsively, eat mani (peanuts) from their shells (as close to hunter gatherer as I'm likely to get) and watch 16 year old boys inhale glue. It is that last point that I ought to elaborate on:

...I'd spotted in my peripheral vision this young chap, sniffing away merrily at this bag filled with glorious glue, and gloriously cheap glue at that; happy as Larry he was. Whilst watching him there, I felt a little sad but also a little connected with that transcendental travelling spirit. Soon, however, little Pablo decided to come spend some time with us and my transcendental spirit evaporated - "be at one with the people metaphysically not physically." The boy was young and high, but by the time he had sat his tiny little legs down on the poo-stained grass I was surreptitiously playing with my recently purchased stainless steel fork; I was to plough it in his left bicep, scream a little, apologise for screaming at such a high pitch, then take flight. I looked across at Spears 'The Heart' Mallis and the following conversation took place...through our eyes only:

"Yo, dude this hobo looks heli-high!" The Heart said.

"Run Spears, run for your life! Leave the eggs, I don't enjoy them boiled anyway."

"Dude, you don't like boiled eggs. Wtf, man?!" He replied, downcast.

"Ignore the gastronomy...and my palate. This boy is dangerous - he's a drug addict and they are all plotting on destroying the economy...I read an article about it, with pictures 'n' all. You take his left bicep. No, take his right, I've got his left. I apologise in advance for any screaming that may or may not take place."

“Mgnudnsudoj,” was the boy's opening line - original and not at all disturbing. The fork remained tightly held in my paw.

Out of courtesy, and to keep him occupied, we made conversation with him. Conversation doesn't last as long as you'd hope with a sniffer of solvents, largely because they can't communicate very well and the effect of this past-time tends to damage the ol' synapses and destroy a healthy chunk of short term memory; such memories were that we were boiling eggs. The loss of this memory led little Pablo, despite our cries of objection, to reach into our pot and extract an egg, then observe it at a closer distance, as one does.

You are granted, when intoxicated, a delayed grace period before your nervous system manages to relay the message that what you did hurt, a lot. The boy's cerebellum soon received this message - this was apparent to us when he looked up at us in child-like horror, as if betrayed by a parent, and spoke the immortal words: “Hot”. The only thing missing was the soothing accompaniment to all documentaries on wildlife: the voice of David Attenborough.

We soon packed up and trotted off into the night, taking what little money the boy had left, in search of the “rich” area. It was not long, however, until a security guard (in disguise) came up to us, revealed his weapon (a baton....a wooden stick....a long...oh, what's the point in trying....yes, he took out is cock, cum on (who), we're all thinking it...are we?) and told us it wasn't safe to stay there. A bizarre city all in all.

I believe I forgot to pipe up on a few little morsels here and there, which struck me whilst enjoying the overwhelming pleasures of Comdoro Rivadavia. The following was scribbled on a napkin I found later in my bag:

...Oh, the irony: This city is a ghastly place (a heady mix of Croydon and Abdijan), however, it does proudly display an old steam engined train that sits on a couple of metres of track, placed in the heart of the city. It would seem this display is a beacon of past development, the foundation and platform from which industrial growth took off. “What? But there are no current trains to be seen in the whole of the city. No means of transport other than car and anaemic horses.”

Therefore, essentially this monument (if we can call it that) serves as a constant, tangible itch in the psyche of the city, reminding them that it has an economy that peaked 100 years ago, almost like telling an 18yr old boy that his sexual peak was in fact 8 years ago. Congratulations.

"The Flight: Death to COOCK"

Finally we’re are jumping ship and trotting off to Comodoro Rivadavia (middle-bottom-left Argentina), leaving Ushuia in our wake. My freshest companion is a Mr. Spears Mallis, he is a 26 year old Californian, fairly tall, with a warm face and prone to falling in love easily, very easily, too easily. It comes as no surprise then to hear that the vast majority of his sentences begin with: “This girl I had just fallen recklessly and irresponsibly in love with, throwing to the wind all manner of self and emotional preservation...” (or something to that effect).

So, the time to depart had arrived and so I set off, with Spears ‘The Heart’ Mallis at my side. The same dreams and aspirations as had polluted my thoughts yesterday still remained seat-belted in my mind, and with that we trotted off to the airport; we were not planning on enduring, once more, the chagrin of an 18 hour journey.

Arrive we did, and wait we would have to, for the plane was delayed by three hours or so. I should note at this point that this was the same company, Sol airlines, churning out the same route and most probably the same plane that was to crash, killing all on board, in three months time.

(NB whilst writing this, sat in cafe, I have just been approached by a small boy, no more than four years of age, who has declared me to be “like a girl”, on account (although I am not certain) of my hair. “He look like girl” He squeaked (four years old and he can't speak proper English, the philistine).)

Anyway, we were delayed and thus time to kill we had: bonding time. We commandeered a nice bottle of scotch, found a grassy knoll - it wasn't like normal airports - and killed the time. Of course, there will arise a few complications when arriving at your designated gate, trollied. One is that you are inevitably late. We were given three hours to cover what was probably 200 metres, and yet all 200 of those metres were still covered at a sprint. The second is that in this case my lovestruck friend brought with him, to a plane what was planning on flying, a Leatherman - essentially a tool capable of fixing a computer, skinning a squirrel, sawing down a sapling and filing your finger nails to the utmost point of perfection.

We arrived at Comodoro Rivadavia at around 2AM.

A day passed in C. Rivadavia:

For those that are unaware of this, Comdoro Rivadavia is somewhat of a shithole, picture, if you will, a soulless city with the view you’d expect to see from an oil rig in the Atlantic. I did, however, get another piercing; an act of impulse. I feel so dangerous and alive right now; I look fantastic.

Scott Adams once said that 'creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.' The art we witnessed that morning certainly supported Adams...

We decided to have breakfast and duly discovered a patch of grass to host the event. Our patch of grass was nestled cosily in the middle of a roundabout, a roundabout in the most heavily congested area of this godforsaken city. It was with a YPF (station de petrol) to our right, shouting, drum banging protesters to our left and with the sensualisation of a thousand morning commuters' sentiments that we settled down to whilst constructing breakfast. A power-box shed of sorts lay adjacent to where we sat, adorning this shed was a fair amount of graffiti, among which were the immortal words: “i liKE YOUR COOCK.”

Many things struck us about this piece of modern art and public profession of anger. One of them was the change in capitals, ‘twas as if the chap or chappette decided after three letters and much deliberation to go: “Fuck it, this is worthy of capitals, the world MUsT hear this!” I wandered to what extent this piece of art was grammatically correct: "Are we looking at a someone playing around with the homophonic qualities of the ultimate word with the subconscious leap one naturally makes when first reading the sentence? Is the artist ironically belittling the derogatory graffiti we see littering buildings and walls but simultaneously mocking us for our ignorance and essentially imploring difference in a world of mundane structures and a reluctance to enjoy individuality?" ‘Coock’ celebrates individuality, whereas ‘cock’ might also demonstrate a Freudian frustration with another person's exemption from the ordinary. Ultimately though, this was South America: they spelt it wrong. Silly boys.

I felt like Bear Grylls as we boiled our own water (Spears boiled the water) - I happen/purposely don’t travel with such weaponry as a stove, but my minion did and so we/he made some quite marvellous coffee. Sitting there, sipping away, watching the world go by in a needle-littered haven, a paradise among a sea of constructed chaos, feasting on porridge, bran flakes, fruit....oh, the fruit we dined on. I knew in that moment that class floats above all obstacles, surpassing financial struggle and situational disturbances to enjoy a good bowl of porridge whilst gazing philosophically at the words ‘i liKE YOUR COOCK’.

"An Extra Bar Won't Stop the Bending."

The following records the journey from Calafate (South Argentina) to Ushuia (the southern most city in the world...yes, still in Argentina):

I was placed, regally, on seat 20. Seat 20 was a seat behind a mother and her son. The child has Downe’s Syndrome. The child enjoys a number of different past times: kissing anyone that passes, on their lips (no, one can not catch Downe’s Syndrome through kissing. Yes, the thought crossed my mind), demanding all sorts of utterly unrelated material such as teddy bears, crisps and gossip magazines. He also took great pride in screaming when none of the aforementioned items were granted to him. Passer-by’s fell into a chorus of patronising tones and acquiesced to his every request. Uncertainty as to what to do and how to react preoccupied the minds of the majority. The mother, on the other hand, watched idly as discipline flew out the window.

Regardless of the attention the child had been and was probably likely to continue to receive, the child still took it upon itself to scream loudly at frequent intervals. It was at around the hour 10 mark when my humour was really flying at full mast, come hour 15 and I was drafting disgracefully plausible options in my head.

Customs was passed a total of five times but only two actual borders were crossed. It should be noted that I was an illegal alien in Argentina at this point - your visa runs out after 90 days and to renew it one must either pay 300 pesos or leave the country and re-enter. It made sense to take the fine on the chin as I had, after all, been in the country for a period of close to two years with but one leave to England in the books, my option was glaringly obvious. I waited for the inevitable slap on the wrist and healthy fine, come border time.

The bus hit the first crossing and this stern looking woman waited for me ominously at the end of my queue. I changed queues. A voluptuous, impressionable looking lady now awaited me – the Nigella Lawson of the immigration world.

“Hello sir, can we (she was representing the Government...'WE'!) have your proof of entry please?” she asked me kindly.
'Shit, what do I do? Stay calm, only a small fine awaits you. But wait, what if they don't take kindly to my English roots...I'll go to prison...I can't go to prison, look at me, I'd be as pillaged as a Anglo-Saxon settling in the West Midlands, right on the coast...with a nice view...and conservatory,' I panicked. 'Pretend you can't speak Spanish. Yes, that's perfect, smile a lot, play with your hair and remember: you can not speak Spanish.'
The woman asked me once again for the papers that would be responsible for my possible incarceration and inevitable flight of all things pure in this world, oh cruel fate. I snapped out of my Shakespearean monologue and gently smiled at her. She smiled back – this was going well.
“Uhhh, English? I arrive not long go, no realise papers be important.” I said...IN THE ACCENT OF SOMEONE WHO CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH! 'Fuck, what on earth possessed me to deny knowledge of both the Spanish and English language? Great, they're going to bring in someone who's mastered Bulgarian and I shall go to prison; I'm bringing surplus soaps... “Don't worry about that Tyrone, you can just leave it right there on the bathroom floor, look, here's another bar. What? Why drop that too?”'
My imprisoned musing was interrupted for the second time: “OK sir, but you need to remember next time to keep hold of them.” the woman informed me. I pretended I didn't understand her response, so I just nodded and continued to smile. She gave me my passport and papers, turned to her friend and muttered: “Idiot.” I was an idiot, fantastic news. It was a badge I would gladly wear; an idiot that had been granted his freedom. I glided back to the bus as life rushed uncontrollably through my veins, head held high, breathing in dramatically the Patagonian air, which tasted the same (same) but different.

Inner-thigh Pain and Religious Rabbits

It is probably in all our interests if I offer a quick background to the following events: I've recently set sail from Necochea (south of Buenos Aires - on the coast) and have arrived in Bariloche (inland - essentially halfway down Argentina, where people go to ski in the winter. It was summer when I arrived so people just thrash about in the lakes). More or less, Bariloche marks the the first port of call wherein I am travelling alone, thus hostel life is as fresh as a mountain stream – a simile I would have done best to avoid using in hostels. So:

Detox is being embraced, the whores and transvestites shall take a back seat – the aphoristic one – and I am to become at one with nature. Natural beauty is my oxygen and I breathe it in deeply at every and any self-created moment, acutely aware that the fragility of these moments will soon be apparent and the novelty will wear off. An extract from previous travels in China support this omen: “Oh dear God, delicately placed before our eyes we have yet another piece of natural fucking beauty. There appears to be the exact same hill as gazed upon yesterday unfolding before us, with what is almost definitely another generic, tackily decorated temple.” ('The Beginner's Guide to Natural Fucking Beauty: China, just yellow and red?', 2008)

My reading for the moment is “The Anatomist”. The protagonist has recently discovered the clitoris (cue round of applause) on a dying woman in the 16th century (suppress or soften still running applause) – as far as dying wishes go, this lady's were surpassed...“before I go, leaving you all in a poverty filled abyss, I shall be requesting just one thing...a glass of Tropicana, with pulp...what?...I'm sorry doctor, what was that? You said you've found the whaaaaaaaaatttoohhhsweetgod!” She never ticked all the boxes on her bucket list.

Hostel life is adaptable, I hope:

‘Twas the middle of the night when I heard it: the shrill, hysterical screaming that selfishly awoke me. The screams were akin to those of a child watching a rabbit being burnt at the stake for heretical crimes. Naturally I remained all tucked up: no bunny watching child would force me into unforeseen night-time movement (it’s not right to have the words “child” and “night-time movement” in the same sentence, but alas, this is where they shall lie.) Eventually the mother settled the child and thus my dreams. I still await the apology from the aforementioned child.

Returned to hostel later the next day. Legs ached. Why? Cycling. Days are now spent flying along roads and pathways singing 'Do Re Mi' – it was a throw up between that and a little bouncy number from 'My Fair Lady'. Anyway, I strolled through the hostel door, my gait as if I had just strolled out of Shawshank. A lot of people stood in the room before me, the classic and yet sickening buzz of an overenthusiastic hostel – a climate that I would soon have to get used to – filled the room.

“Just pass through them, up the stairs and hit the showers (cue flashback to face of 'maternal' prep school matron).” I muttered – already I was muttering. I should point out that muttering, to yourself, whilst hovering over the precipice of a large group of strangers, is not a recommended course of action. You tend to give off a less than stable vibe. No one is likely to casually stroll over and remark: “Hey there, I saw you with your chin pressed to your chest and your eyes unnervingly looking ahead, while you muttered busily, and I thought to myself: 'hey he seems like a bloody riot to chat to, and not at all mentally fragile.'”

Despite my internal affairs grinding away, I strolled through the crowd. 'Hey look at me now dad, I'm strolling, through a crowd, of humans..sorry, people, I always call them that, really.' Maybe the intimate little monologue I was constructing should take the blame for this, but no sooner had I finished this victory sentence, then I tripped – probably over some shitty, communal mood-lifting hostel cat.

You have two options to take when confronted with such a shade of public humiliation:

1. You regard yourself in an ever so serious light and fly into deep and quizzical expressions of thought and wonder how on earth this débâcle occurred - it was not your fault. You are YOU.
2. Smile, maybe even let loose a jovial giggle, not too girlish but not too territorial, get up and continue on your way. Maybe engage in light conversation, following eye-contact, with someone close by who could and can not deny standing witness to this. You shall both laugh and everyone will think none the less of you.

In the moment, I saw it fit to combine both these options – 'the moment' takes a lot of blame during the course of one's life... “So what if she had a penis, I was in 'the moment'”.

So, with complete disregard to my prettily laid out options, I let out a girlish giggle whilst simultaneously looking at the soles of my shoes as if the Holy Grail and answer to all public trippings could and WOULD be found there - they aren't. I then arose and walked towards the stairs, turned to a girl 'close by', giggled again (why!?) and said: “Owww, guilty candidate for a broken nail...right there.” She then took me firmly by the hand and we spent the following 4 and a half minutes imitating non-heretical rabbits. Only kidding, she looked at me in complete distaste and wandered off into a sea of hemp and dread-locks... .

Moral of the story: don't make sounds like Maria.

"I am a passenger," says Iggy Pop...but he had heroine to help with the journey. I don't.

I am lacking in time, my anecdotes are scribbled on the pages of my “Hello Kitty” diary (yes, it’s pink, and yes, it has a heart lock, a tangible one at least). I have become a traveller, nay; a “back packer” (…is the fact that I’ve already over used the quotation mark sufficient evidence of aforementioned diary?). Anyway, it appears that I’m only just coming to terms with this realisation…

I was strolling along the streets of Comodoro Rivadavia (from now on please assume that all names of towns or cities are said in an annoying faux-Spanish accent that says: “Yar, like I don’t even think about it anymore, ever since conversing, from an STA travel distance, with villagers when I was building mud huts in Bolivia and thus simultaneously placing local workers out of a job…lovely race, a tad small though”) …sweating like any normal person with a b*** p*** on who doesn’t wish to use the words “black man”, “pedophile” or “vicar” in his simile, when I suddenly saw my reflection in the shop window. I stopped, obviously.

“Oh dear god Frederick, you have what appears to be a b*** p*** on you. Further more, you have a hand woven bracelet on your wrist and long flowing locks…I am akin to a Von Trapp child, Justin, of course.” My mind piped up.

I can whole heartedly say that people who wear a bracelet, hand woven by some small Peruvian child, makes me sick, buy it from a supermarket and support a corporation. However, mine is different. ‘Twas made by a crazy Frenchman, Alan, who always wore a hat, a hat that always sported a feather, a feather that probably sported diseases. I didn’t touch him, or his hat. Anyway, the bracelet is a mixture of ivy green, daffodil yellow and love, lots of it. I like it, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside...and what!?

Recently, I have been given a lot of unnecessary chagrin from dogs. The first incident goes as follows:

The resident dog in the hostel I was residing in, in Ushuaia (southern most city in the world, why did I go there? To say I’d been there. It wasn't for the penguins. Fuck the penguins, or don’t, save that for a nighttime stroll to a zoo, which has penguins, or you’ll be settling for a marsupial and they’ll probably see you cuming…being animals off the night ‘n’ all), named “Gordita”, which does translate as: “little fat female being”. Anyway, I believe this animal to be having a thyroid issue (all diagnoses are sponsored by New Labour), but unfortunately this disability/disease hasn’t saved it from owner induced aggravation.

So, I was minding my own business, preaching the good word (democracy and Libyian food) when I passed said dog…

“Oh, hello Gordita…how are you today, little doggy woggy. Would you care to smell my foot, you seem awfully interested: a fetish no doubt.” I offer, in a generously patronizing tone, as all children and animals ought to be addressed in.

(I proceed to move my shoed, right foot towards its bed: testing the water as you will.
The dog woggy then launches, as best it can, at me like a beige balloon with buttons of death stuck on it as eyes. Jaws, lock around my foot. I let out an oestrogen filled, girly scream, followed by a guttural, manly laughter…sprinkled delicately with a garnish of fear, courtesy of Nigella. Silly doggy.)

“Damn you cushion doggy, with unfortunate thyroid problem.” I say, coolly, whilst I swing my right foot around, now adorned with an Argentine mongrel (‘twasn’t even pure bred: scum).

Those around me are either laughing or trying to help.

“Remain calm Pablobians, all is well and rosy here. I saw some action like this in India…eventually the boy relaxed his jaw.” I broadcasted to the room.

I was right, the doggy did let go, and then receive a sharp kick in its face...that was a joke, I don’t hurt animals with four legs. If a suspiciously large or any amount of Green and Black’s finds itself in its food bowl, I know no evil, merely speak a little.

Second dog incident shall be relayed a little quicker to you, as I seem to have rambled.

Well, when crossing into Chile, believe it or not, one is required to cross a border. This border has rules. Two of the main rules are: “NO FRUIT OR SMALL CHILDREN”. I carry a lot of one of those commodities, not the children, although the Peruvian border awaits me with baited breath.

(The following is said around a camp fire as flutes rasp out the “Titanic” soundtrack.)

“Rules are vague, I’m a passenger and now a b*** p*****, therefore materialistic trappings of a society corrupted by vanity and self preservation mean nothing to me, neither do intangible boundaries, dragging one down like governmental gravity. This Granny Smith is coming with me.”

So, you are required, having shown some official your darkest hour, the passport photo, to stand in a line. I thought that that was it, we was all to be shot because of some childish border banter…couldn’t I at least have a shower like Scorcese says. “What?”...nothing.
A dog came out, on a lead. Everyone sighs and there is a group “awhhhh” sound.
“Oh you foolish Pabloblians. Not cute little doggy…devil doggy that’s going to send anyone with a banana or rock of crack up their arse straight to a Chilean cell to be sandwiched between a 6ft 5” misunderstood black man and a skinny, victim of society with father issues (previous stereotypes are based solely on fact and films). The dog starts to sniff peoples’ bags. It stops at mine, places it left paw on my bag and gazes up at its owner. Everyone giggles and another collective “awwwhhh” sound is heard. Who is responsible for the "awwwhh" spark? Pablo?

Thus, thanks to a small golden retriever with a nose for fruit and crack (another chap had a casual prostrate exam; forever a changed man), I was forced to spill the contents of my b*** p*** on the floor. “No, I have no idea how that laced silk dressing gown that hugs one’s thighs like a warm summer wind got in my bag, and no, I can not explain those stains…oh, all right, I can.”

I never had to pay a fine, financial that is…I was however forced to watch their rendition of “Cats”, twice.

Moral of this story…wedge higher if you want to fend off Lloyd Weber.

(May I apologise for lack of appropriate punctuation…the keyboard has decided to mix up the necessary buttons. “Made in Chile.” This won’t happen again.)

The next post is due to address the difficulties of sharing a room with seven other living human beings...go on, use your imagination.

"The Stamp of the Feline Pheromone: the pre-ovariless days"

I am acutely aware that I write a lot about myself; I enjoy it, ‘tis a subject of great interest for me. But recently I’ve been deep in the careful observation of a cat. The cat entertains and baffles; its out of the ordinary lifestyle is, quite frankly, bizarre.

The cat’s days are passed under no great pressures, splitting the hours between cleansing itself, playing with itself (not in the sexual manner), eating and shitting in a box, then hiding its faeces under a bed of litter: chocolate Easter eggs of the domesticated feline world.

However, what interests me the most are not the points aforementioned, rather the phenomenon that takes place once the mysterious blanket of change is thrown over its being (and tucked in at the ends). The cat emerges, not as a cat but as a sex crazed nymphomaniac concerned with one thing and one thing only: the quest for satisfaction.

Tables, stairs, beds, bags, shoes, feet (it loves feet…for the obvious potential a toe possesses)…the list has no limits (limitless). It is as if Robert Pattinson was sent blindfolded, most probably naked as well (the two, more often than not, ride hand in hand) into a Sunday evening Mass at an all girls' Catholic boarding school:; an uncut, black and white tribute to pheromones and the suggestive, beautifully sown lexicon of Stephenie Meyer.

Postman Pat’s cat, it appears, did not struggle with the coming of womanhood (maybe because it was a man cat, or conveniently asexual) but instead floated along in a sexless wilderness, suspended above menopause and yet pinned before puberty: its sexual identity stripped crudely from it by the monotonous rhythm of mail delivery; a slave to the royal insignia.

Two very different cats, leading two very different lives, preoccupied by two very different things; neither conscious of the directions they head in.

Moral of the story: “You can’t always get what you want….but you can try sometimes.”

(Next to follow will be the dramatisation of the day I lost both my jobs...and other poor stories)