FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED IN DISAPPEARANCE AT PARKESVILLE.

A missing persons report is being treated as a suspected mass homicide case at Parkesville.

Ms Ariadne and her children disappeared mysteriously during the night. Mr Fidel has been named as a frog of interest in this case.

Although the evidence is circumstantial, authorities feel it is substantial: Only Mr. Fidel, their close neighbour, was seen in the vicinity that night. To add to the suspicions, Mr Fidel is considerably fatter.

Fidel has made no comment so far, and has refused a lie detector test. He looks decidedly smug.

Authorities decided not to organize an identlty parade on the grounds that even they couldn't tell which was who in a line up.

Ms Ariadne is about 6 mm, has eight legs and seven eyes. Her children resemble her but are very small. Anyone who may have seen them can contact the rest of the odd bods resident at Parkesville.

Fidel Frog

I have often written bemoaning our odd life at Parkesville Pondokkie. My eccentric man, and our orphans (six ex-feral cats, Bandersnatch the dog, Bilbo-rabbit, Gandalf Guinea pig, three gerbils and three birds) keep us on our toes. We love them all so the complications they cause are tolerated.  However life has just gone beyond sanity.

A tiny tree frog made its home in a pot plant in the bathroom. He behaves himself hiding in the plant and then crawling all over the room at night eating mosquitoes. So why a problem?

It's my sanity challenged man again. I am nagged constantly: mustn't leave the door open, the cats may find Fidel Frog (yes!). Pull the curtain just so, so he doesn't get too hot, but has light. Open the window slightly and leave the light on all night to attract mosquitoes, and don't kill them when you go to the loo: he may be hungry.

Going to the john is now a life-threatening mission. Numerous whining bloodsuckers descend in clouds and deplete my circulatory system. I wonder if the Fidel likes human blood? Am trying to see if he's developing fangs. Am having Little Shop of Horrors flashbacks.

Things have deteriorated further. Ron now puts Fidel's plant in the empty bath and sprinkles water on it three times a day. I have been limited to short tepid showers in case FF finds the steam uncomfortable. The plug must always be in the empty bath in case FF disappears down the hole.

Every now and then FF disappears for a day or two. Panic stations. My large hairy man crawls around in the bathroom disturbing my plant family, searching for a frog!

I must admit FF is appealing. Tiny and perfect like a little bright-eyed brooch. And yes, darn it, I have grown fond of him.

PS. The spider's name is Arriadne – but that's another story.

SAD DEMISE OF A POPULAR MEMBER OF THE FAMILY

The level of feline felicity has dropped at our pondokkie. There is a sad, empty
place in our garden and in our lives.

The cats tearfully asked me to announce the following:

OBITUARY: CAT NIP PLANT
Passed away after a short but courageous struggle
against difficult odds.
Sadly mourned by Toffee, Gentleman Jim, Mad
Bad Leroy Black, Jet Black and Mammakat.
Request more cat nip plants in lieu of sympathy.

PS. The dogs think its a huge joke.

THE PHANTOM OF THE PONDOKKIE

The logistics of looking after six cats is mind boggling and confusing to say the least.

It is most important to avoid stepping on a sleeping cat. This is not as simple as it may at first seem. When one has reached the age of decrepitude and faulty vision (and faulty  everything else), one is forced to start at the door and walk bent double, peering intently at the floor. In our minute abode, much of the floor is carpeted with cats so we also have to take big steps. Thus doubled over one is inclined to connect knee to chin which is most uncomfortable. One also generally ends up bumping the head on the opposite wall. This is all a little unnerving for first time visitors or religious callers.

Each cat has its favourite sleeping spot at night when the floor is cold. Firecracker Cat has to have the fish tank light on all night so she can soak up the warmth through her belly and the tip of her nose. Gentleman Jim needs a sheepskin bed (liberally sprayed with Catnip) atop the 'fridge' where he can keep an eye on the tank of Gerbils. He also needs his nose doctored at regular intervals when he bonks it on the glass sides, trying to pounce on the gerbils who then set up a tattoo of hind footed thumps. Some say this is their danger signal but they told me it's a Gerbolic rude sign.

The infamous ex-feral, Mammakat, sleeps blissfully in the bend of Ron's knee (on her back with her toes curled up) and woe betide him if he dares to move. Jet hides in a dark but cosy corner trying to look like a shadow in case Mad Bad Leroy Black (The Baddest Cat in the Whole Damn Shack) arrives. Fat Toffee sleeps on me, crushing my ribs and leaving me gasping.

At some stage during the night, Mad Bad arrives with a flourish and peace is no more.  His first stop is the six food bowls which he licks clean. Next he seeks out his arch enemy, Jet, and there follows a yeowling and howling from both cats and Ron who is loudest of all. Eventually Ron starts throwing pillows and books at Mad Bad and yelling at me crossly,

 “Don't let that damn cat pee all over”.

Unfortunately, Mad Bad feels he must mark the territory. I leap out of bed, dodging Ron's missiles and catch the culprit just before he does the unthinkable.  He is given a huge plate of treats and lots of cuddles aimed at calming him down.

Just when all is quiet and we are falling asleep, little Firecracker launches herself at Mad Bad. It's her Siamese blood. The two (who love each other) roll  happily all over the house and everything that's not tied down comes crashing to the floor.

Every morning, this sleep challenged old couple is greeted by a purring affectionate sextet who charm us yet again and all is forgiven. Until next time.

Until the next night

FIFA WORLD CUP SOCCER

Still feel it; it was here. What a major event this has been, and how well it all went off.

As a soccer ignoramus (always thought it a boring game for sissies who never actually got down to doing much) the finals meant little to me, but my, how we enjoyed it.

First it was all the fun and hype. Flags and vuvuzelas, unprecedented camaraderie and bonhomie. Strangers of all races grinning at one another, and all of us united in our anxious hope that Bafana Bafana would do us proud.

Next came the wonder at the beauty and majesty of our new stadium. Our roads were tarred, the new airport opened in time.

My man bought a SA flag for the car but then I had to wrestle it out of him to put it on the window. He didn't want it spoiled. He even got out the antique hunting horn and self-consciously blurped it at Lifestyle. Just once before ducking back into the car, but feeling he had PARTICIPATED.

After all this we actually felt like watching our boys play. They did amazingly well. How intimidating (cruel?) to have to play against teams so much further up the ability list, and in front of millions.

Observations:

                 1. The skill of a soccer player is now appreciated. That ball handling (footling?) is 
                    magic. The pontificaters who criticize the players from the side would probably fall on 
                    their faces trying it. Someone kicked a ball backwards over  his head, placing it exactly 
                    where he wanted it. Nobody fell out the the stands in ecstasy at this feat so one must 
                    gather it is not unusual.

2.    The goals are too small.

3.    The commentators deserve a medal for rapid babbling and managing all those names.

4.    Soccer players should have their names changed. Messy? Was there really a Moulin Rouge?

5.    Soccer is most frustrating. They must be dying to grab the ball and run. No wonder the spectators go on the rampage afterwards. All those almost goals. Wild excitement.. . commentator's voice rises in ecstasy . . . missed. Or stopped. Ugh!

6.    For all the joy, it was a sad time. Visions of highly decorated spectators looking stunned, players weeping as years of hard work crumbled to nothing. Heavy stuff.

7.    Don't become a coach.  They looked desperately miserable all the time. Felt like offering them a drink.

8.    A nice change now would be a good, bloody, rough rugby game where gigantic men (with nice familiar names like Hyena, Pierri-weepu, Chilli Boy and Beeeeast)  really fight for their lives.  They grab the ball, tackle each other, bleed but carry on, and the scores soar . If we could only win!  

LOST CARS

I thoroughly enjoyed the Porters' letter (North Coast Courier) about misplacing their chariot in the car park. Having done this too often, even when younger, I sympathise with their lost and bewildered wanderings. Visions of forlornly roaming the rows of somebody else's cars after dark still haunt me.

This is why I bought a bright yellow Atoz when the skedonk died. It stands taller than most cars and positively glows. Unfortunately, a couple of unscrupulous locals have bought  identical cars so my troubles are not quite over.

Years ago I read of a woman who solved this dilemma by attaching a yellow duster to one of those drain cleaning thinggys with a big sucker and handle. She plonked this on top of her car and always found it with ease. Of course these days someone may steal the flag!

Direction is just not my forte. As a young mother, new to Durban,  I had to drop the husband at Louis Botha airport. Frighteningly alone with just my toddlers for company in terrifying traffic on unfamiliar roads, I thought we'd never get home again. Every time I reached Durban I somehow ended up driving back towards the airport. By the third time around the kids and I were all crying loudly, to the amazement of a very puzzled newspaper vendor whom we passed regularly every twenty minutes.

When I had to fetch the man I first visited my sister in Durban on the strength of her promise to lead me to the correct airport road. At night!! Still shaky from the previous nightmare trip I fearfully followed her tail lights not daring to blink in case I lost her. I carefully followed her tail lights to the highway - and then carefully followed them all the way back to her house. Getting lost is my best talent.

Incidentally, this is one of the main reasons I married my man. Clutching a mandolin under one arm and a set of bagpipes under the other; and with his long pony tail and impressive moustache, even I couldn't possibly lose him in a crowd.

RON'S HAIR

When my man's legs and back gave in, he started to play the mandolin professionally. To make him look the part I persuaded him to grow out his military style short back and sides. What a surprise when he produced a magnificent frizzy bush of silver hair!

Left loose, his awesome hair stands straight out from his head and is quite terrifying. I  have to plait it for him and what a lovely thick plait it is. He insists it's his “cue” in the best of naval traditions.

This new look has had all sorts of positive consequences for him,e.g. he purrs happily when a pretty young thing sits on his lap and strokes his hair.

Not all results were so enjoyable. One woman tried to pull it (and his luxurious moustache) off to prove they were fake, and he nearly fell off his perch when a man kissed him soundly on the forehead and told him he was beautiful.

Showering is also a problem. He now borrows my large hair clasp and clips his plait on top of his head before bathing. He is built like a hairy gorilla and his cute clip atop his head looks incongruous. He tends to forget it's there and I find it disconcerting trying to discuss financial problems or political mess ups with this odd looking man. How does one disagree vehemently with such an apparition?

I have to confess to a moment of irresistible temptation that overcame me at a dear friend's garden party. They had tied helium balloons to the backs of the chairs and I'm afraid I gave in and tied one to Ron's pigtail. I had visions of making a fortune selling pictures to advertise that little blue pill so loved by elderly men. Unfortunately he felt my fumbling and thwarted my plans.

The worst happened recently when he and a big leather clad biker were shovelling toast into their mouths while they put the world aright. Next minute, my man was going purple and making disgusting gurgling sounds. Biker and I thought it was the end of the Mandolin Man, but never fear, he had simply swallowed his plait! Eyes bulging, moustache twitching and face going blue, he pulled it out again. Been off my food for a while now.

I am just waiting for someone to invite us to a fancy dress party. With his figure we could dress him in striped pants, put two plaits in his hair, hand him a menhir and call him Obelisk. After all we painted him green once and passed him off as  Shrek. With the Shrek ears stuck to his head he looked like a nauseous Viking. Only trouble was the grease paint was not the genuine sort and he stayed green for a week.  Even his cat didn't want to know him. Living with an angry green man was interesting (sort of).

I often wonder what a normal life must be like? Boring!

Regards,MARIE PARKES

Maidstone.

PS. Perhaps we could pass him off as a Yeti???