I am so lucky that even on my worst days, Attila the Bun still thinks I’m the best thing since half-chewed toilet rolls. Got home today after a thoroughly miserable time and he climbed right into my lap for a hug. He may destroy my favourite hoodie, molest my housemate’s cats, eat laptop cables and poo on my friends but I wouldn’t swap him for anything.
Except possibly a slightly more socially acceptable version of himself.
In the kitchen where I work, there is a hands-free sink with an activation panel at hip height designed to be bumped with the hip to turn on the tap, in the event that your hands are too covered in disgusting kitchen mess to operate the tap manually. Someone stuck a bin of flour under half of it, making accessing it from the left rather tricky - and I keep my phone and keys in my right hip pocket, meaning that if i try and bump it with my right hip, i get an arseful of keys.
Therefore, the only way to access it is with a direct frontal attack. This is why, on any given day, you can walk into work and find me covered in globules of dough to the elbows, vigorously humping the sink.
I need a new job.
Attila the bun wanted very badly to get up on my shoulder, so I let him.
Once there, he clung on like the ineptly-designed piderman-wannabe he is and shook until I rescued him.
However, the instant I got him back down onto the safety of the floor, he started begging to get up on my lap again and, sure enough, made a beeline over the boobs to my shoulder.
Dammit, Bunny, how many times have I got to tell you. You are not George Mallory, nor is he a good person to emulate.
Studying martial arts is supposed to make me calm, collected and confident in difficult situations.
Instead, I’ve dropped back into the habit of sleeping with my bokken beside my bed, and responding to every unknown creak and bump in the middle of the night by scuttling out into the corridor, training sword in hand, to investigate, as though possessed by the spirit of macauley culkin himself. Imagine me, striking fear into the hearts of all intruders - a neurotic pajama samurai, shedding cat hair and fear-sweat in equal quantities.
So my colleagues caught me pumping out the Rent soundtrack at atrocious volumes while i sang along and bopped around the kitchen, making brownies. My attempts to coach the chefs in basic feminism have been set back while they laugh themselves sick at my stereotypical antics.
Anyone playing Flight Rising, my username is ManicPixie. I’d love to have a few new friends to fling Dragon babies at.
Burmillas testing the theory that cats are liquid life forms, and attempting to osmose into Burmillazord.
This is the best shot we’ve ever gotten that accurately depicts the size difference between them. Mughi’s the big galumphus, Rescue’s the tiny pixiecat.
On one hand, must scrub every inch of the house for the rent inspection on tuesday. On the other hand, Flight Rising.