About a month ago, Comrade Guadalupe and I were minding our own business in the backblocks of Northcote when THE MOST ENORMOUS CAT I HAVE EVER SEEN ran up to us and emitted a roar so stentorian I actually jumped. It wouldn't have been polite to quiz him about his parentage, but I've been considering the logistics of fog-horn/tiger dalliances ever since.
"HELLO! HELLO! HELLO!" said Loud Cat, before lying down in the middle of the road, rolling onto his back, and shouting, "PAT!"
Having spent far far far too long with our bottoms wedged into the upholstery of the public transpotato yesterday, Comrade Guadalupe and I decided to return to the backblocks of Northcote, limber up our glutei maximi, and keep our ears peeled for the lawnmowerish purr of Loud Cat at his ease.
No Loud Cat.
Was it a sign? Did the absence of Loud Cat betoken the folly of shambling around suburbia when I should have been writing my conference paper?
I figured it out today, as summer blew into Melbourne like an infernal portable hair-dryer with bonus Vesuvianismus. Loud Cat, sensible chap that he is, has got himself a berth as official basso profundo in a Norway-based opera company, and he is right this minute rehearsing for Don Giovanni in Oslo. Very wise, Loud Cat.
It has been revoltingly hot today. Guinea-pig-deadeningly hot. The only people who like this kind of weather are ants. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because they can dismantle all the dead guinea pigs and take bits back to their nests.
I would like to make two special honorary mentions. Firstly, well done, electric fan. Your air-churning has been above and beyond the call of duty. Secondly, thank you, rotation of the earth. I cannot overstate my enthusiasm for the whole sunset-night-temperature-reduction thingy.