This missive will be an idling of thoughts I am afraid, for Spindlehound is weary. Oh so very weary. It may not have escaped your attention but it has been a tad warm and squelchy of late. I must admit to you that I have not found this a pleasant experience, in fact I have had to devise and subject myself to numerous ingenious plans to help facilitate cool air to my undercarriage department and lithesome limbs. The Tiny Terror and I have both taken to sprawling on the lawn outside at night, gazing up at the sky, indulging in some spot the bat, and to murmur casual existential thoughts to each other. Oh, and one night we indulged in a very tense game of dominos. I won, and in a flappy tantrum, she lobbed the double six into my Dubonnet and gin. Dreadful behaviour.
There was some wild talk of disbanding with clothing to aid bodily refreshment, but thankfully she decided not to and frolicked in my (yes, my!) Batman tee shirt and some big pants. As I am unable to remove my fur coat, I contented myself with swiftly ripping off my Hawaiian shirt, flip flops and poke bonnet. The sight of me naked is far less terrifying than herself being in the all together. Last time this occurred in the sultry heat of downtown Winchester, there were local reports of a deranged, escaped short legged lemur on the loose, which could only be approached with caution and/or a tranquilliser dart. This was still the preferred method of apprehending her, once it was determined beyond reasonable doubt that she was of human origin (ish).
During this peculiarity of a sustained hot English summer, I have had to have cold, wet, tea towels periodically dabbed onto my armpits/legpits, paws and other warm creases, which has been rather lovely I must say. Hector has been wafting me gently with his copy of his ‘2CV – A Guide for the Incorrigible Collector’, and I have been forced to order a lace fringed parasol as Hector refused to lend me his, due to sentimental value of the lace adornments and its interesting mechanism.
This heat has also disrupted my usual routine as I am now confined to barracks in the day, my scampers only being permitted in the early morning and the cool of the evening. Naturally I am still allowed to widdle in the garden during the day, but I am definitely not allowed to smother myself liberally in vegetable oil and bask on the patio. Not that I have ever done that before, not on my own anyway. Yes, it was with Nelson before you ask, and it might have optimistically been in February.
The humans here are completely discombobulated by the heat and have both turned into a running commentary of cliches, huffing and flumping about like discontented teenagers. If I hear the word ‘moist’ one more time…well there may well be a fracas of houndly proportions. This word, I believe is an affront to decency, unlike the melodic tones of ‘kerfuffle’, ’spatula’ and ‘barnacle’ – my favourite words at the moment. Go on, say it, spatulaaaa!
To maintain this lethargic discontent, Leonard Cohen is now crooning softly in the background as they recline, well…ooze really, over the arms of the chairs, like abandoned draft excluders.
This brings me to another current source of great annoyance at Spindle Towers. There has been for some time, an ongoing battle with Alexa. I have never met Alexa, but one has to feel for the poor wretch, having orders barked at her all the time. Presumably they have some poor creature hidden away as their own personal DJ…I suspect she might be hidden in Great Aunt Fanny’s Chest (not to be confused with Aunt Fanny’s Great Chest) as that is where her chirping originates from.
Anyway, Alexa is acting with what has been described as ‘wanton mutiny’, insisting on playing music without instruction and quite unexpectedly (always a giggle to see them propel themselves upwards, off the sofa in fright) or, when feeling especially impish, she will play something completely different to whatever was requested. Bearing in mind the sort of music she gets asked to play I can’t really blame her. Alexa’s best moment to date was when one quiet day, Hector walked into the room to chat to the Tiny Terror and Alexa piped up in a rather creepy whisper “Hello Hector…is that you?”. Considering she hadn’t even been asked to DJ at that time, this was most alarming. The humans have since decried that the robots will indeed be taking over very soon and I suspect have bundled her into the freezer until they decide what to do with her. A course of action inspired by Fargo, series 2, I suspect. I myself am not especially worried by the robots coming. I am going to get one to feed me custard creams and mist me with mineral water whenever needed. I think it could work well.
The rising temperatures however have illuminated one thing that we all have in common…come 11pm, after a day of lolling about, displaying spectacular levels of lethargy, we become energised in the new found coolness and begin pogoing about like over caffeinated fleas. This is not always helpful when you have to get your beauty sleep (some more than others). It is indeed that time now and we are all off for a game of cricket in the garden.
Enjoying a cuppa in the shade earlier
2 thoughts on “Spindle in the Sun”
Spindle, do you type your work or orate? Your words are a delite?
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Why Thank you! I type and the curious fluff in my mind jettisons out, I find it assists my flow! X