Wednesday, 24 March 2010

How clean is your mouser

The clippy cloppy woman is a big fan of a program on the telly thingy called "How Clean Is Your House" in which two rather ropey looking old dears go around to peoples homes to patronise them and play with faecal matter. They give you tips on how to keep your house spick and span. These so called tips, however, invariably mean you have to get your hands dirty. Well, I have come up with the perfect, faecal-matter-under-the-fingernails free way of keeping your toilet in a pristine condition. Just follow these ten easy steps to a perfectly polished pan....

Step one. Lift both the lids of your toilet and pour in a couple of capfuls of shampoo.

Step two. Get a sack and a can of tuna fish.

Step three. Place the opened can of tuna fish just inside your open back door, then crouch behind said back door with the sack.

Step four. Wait for a passing turd burier to attempt to steal the tuna.

Step five. Jump on the feline fish felon and stuff it into the sack. (I recommend wearing gloves for this part.)

Step six. Empty the sack into the toilet and quickly slam shut both toilet lids. (You may need to stand on the lid at this point.) The cat will self-agitate and make ample suds. (Don't be put off by the noises emanating from the toilet, these are noises of pleasure and the cat is in reality having a great old time thrashing around in there.)

Step seven. Flush the toilet four or five times. (This provides a "power wash" and a rinse.)

Step eight. Ensure any doors between the bathroom and the outside world are open. (Also, be sure no one is standing between the bathroom and the outside world.)

Step nine. Stand behind the toilet, as far back as is possible, and quickly lift the lids.

Step ten. The cat will rocket out of the now gleaming toilet and run outside where it will dry itself off. After completion of this procedure both the toilet and the cat will be sparkling clean.

I dont get paid for any of this stuff you know? It's all part of my altruistic nature. A service I provide, free of charge, totally gratis, to my legion of puppy fans. I don't require payment, or even gratitude, just the thought that someone, somewhere, is using my method, that they have a sparkly, shiny lavatory and that a cat has suffered greatly is payment enough for me. (Although if any of you fancy sending me a biscuit I wouldn't refuse. I do like a nice biscuit.)

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Sandy shores

At long last I am free of that infernal lampshade! It was, apparently, put in situ to prevent me from chewing and licking on the wound that the theft of my uterus had left behind. For crying out loud, as if I'd do that anyway? Gross.

By way of celebration, once the vet had done her duty and removed my cone of shame, the long man loaded me into the svan and took me to southport beach for a good, bracing walk. Unfortunately he refused to let me off the lead, so I was forced to bound along the sandy shore like a puppy on a string. I forget sometimes how little trust he has in me, but theres always something there to remind me. Let's face it, anyone who had a heart would give me a little freedom. He used to let me off the lead all the time, those were the days.

On the way back home we stopped off at the big pet shop and he bought me a new collar and lead. The collar is rather nice, but the lead I could live without.

The long man and the clippy cloppy woman went out again this weekend on their Vespa. As ever my peace and quiet was short lived. Just an hour or so after they had popp-popp-popped away up the street in a plume of blue smoke Audrey arrived, with the shouty woman and the clicky ankled lady in tow. I had been saving half of my breakfast for later, but whilst I was greeting the two people Audrey snuck off into the kitchen and ate the bloody lot.

They were here to oversee a man who turned up shortly after their arrival and proceeded to drill holes in the wall, bugger about with the telly thingy and generally make a right mess. Curiously, Audrey informed me before his arrival that he was being sent by a virgin. I was expecting some kind of Messiah type, all long, white, cotton robes and a beard. When he arrived though he was a big, fat bloke with a red jumper and a drill who smelled a little bit like eggs and beer.

On Sunday we went to visit the cat lady. It's been quite a while since we visited her house, and I had been looking forward to the opportunity to have a quiet little word with that bloody cat of hers. The place still has the stomach churning stench of the damnable little turd burier. I wasted no time in tracking her down and found her cowering behind the settee, all hissy and arched. I had more than a few stern words with her vis a vis her recent holiday at my house whilst the long man and I were in exile. I pointed out that I was most unhappy with the odours she'd left behind, told her that I would prefer it if she would stay away and warned her that if she ignored this friendly piece of advice and I ever saw her dirty, filthy, raspy tongued visage within a mile of my house I would rip off her head and pee down the hole. Then I went into the kitchen and ate her food.

The back garden of the cat lady's house had a pond similar to the pond at the clicky ankled lady's house. When last we visited the water in the pond was all hard and slippery, but this time it was much more, well, watery, and had these orange things swimming around in it. The orange things smelled a little like tuna fish, but weren't round and in a tin can. Intrigued, I tried to hook one out with my paw. My goodness, what a furore ensued! The clippy cloppy woman and the cat lady were banging on the kitchen window and screaching like banshees, and the long man came dashing out of the back door waving his arms about with a very disconcerting look on his face. Fair shook me up it did.

I've signed up to Facebook recently and have quite a number of friends on there. I think I've made a bit of a mistake by adding the long man and the clippy cloppy woman though. I've no more secrets, they've stumbled on my blog and now my biscuit ration is suffering. I will not be censored though.

The long man left the house yesterday morning wearing a tie and shiny shoes. I assume that he had to go to court and was being brought to book for some drunken indiscretion, and that he would be forced to spend a little time pleasuring Her Majesty. No such luck, the bugger was back by tea time. He must've got off on some sort of technicality.

Speaking of getting off, I'm going to get off this laptop now. It's late, and since my hysterectomy I like to get a nice early night. Bonne nuit mes amies. (That's for the French readers I now have. It's nice to be nice.)