Art for Art’s Sake
Not one life vest, not one responsible adult.Call the Social!
One of the Enid Blytonesque things The Flying Martinis do of a week is Family Night (TM). Oh, hang on…I think I just heard the sound of my “Mommy Blogger” blacklisting being revoked! Quick, let’s bake some cakes and photograph them too.
Actually to call our family night Enid Blytonesque is rather ridiculous. In the work of Enid Blyton I seem to remember that kids ran amok solving mysteries without a shred of parental guidance, or were, indeed, packed off to boarding school to be brought up by complete strangers wearing pince-nez and big cloaks. There was never much of a family involved in anything Blyton’s Famous Five or Secret Seven ever did. In fact, they always seemed to rely on goodly yet childless farmer’s wives to take pity on them and replenish them with cakes and sandwiches and lashings of ginger beer. Really, it’s time we re-evaluated the work of Blyton; her tales are clearly of neglected latchkey children.
Essay question: Enid Blyton could be described as aTwentieth Century Dickens but with jam and cakes. Discuss.
Anyway, as you may remember a while back it was Junior Misssy’s turn to dictate what we did on Family Night- we went to the school playground to mess about on bikes, rectify wanton vandalism and listen to other kids swearing at each other. Good clean fun with an edge of gritty realism.
The next week, we had a Mario Kart competition on the Wii, at Indy’s request, in which I played like a big Jessie. Indy and his best friend, Socks, were so concerned for my ego that they would cover the screen when my score came up. I was like Norway in the Eurovision Song Contest. So much so that I wanted to change my Kart to resemble a Viking Longboat.
So onto the actual bona fide reason for this post; it was my turn to choose what we did last week, and I turned the twee factor up to eleven. I made us all paint a portrait of Sonny the Black Menace.
I wish to showcase the results*:
Meeester channels Warhol
Indy channels Hieronymous Bosch
Junior Misssy channels Picasso
Misssy channels Van Gogh
(there’s a second one with one floppy ear missing)
And if you think that’s some quality wholesome family entertainment right there, then wait til you hear what Meeester has got planned. In true Partridge Family style; this Family Night Meeester is going to get us to record a song. Talk about twee with a capital Twuh! I feel like Julie Andrews.
God help you all, gentle readers! (Any requests?)
Our sleeping muse
*Mainly because I’m not well, and light on blogging ideas for this week due to a mind-numbing cocktail of over the counter drugs that is rendering me incapable of doing the simplest things. Picture Jack Nicholson in One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest after the lobotomy, but with a better hair line. Apologies for below par posting, I’m half a person right now.
Don’t ever miss a Misssive, subscribe!
Dog’s Abuse
Sonny (right) and the reason I got my own dog, Oscar (left)
who belongs to my mates
As regular Misssives readers will know, I am a novice dog owner.
The object of my dogged affection is seven month old Sonny, (aka, “The Black Menace”). I love him. But I love him the way Peggy Mitchell loved them Mitchell sons of hers in “Eastenders”. Dogs can sometimes be hard to love. They are sometimes a bit too doggy and do dreadfully doggy things.
I love that boy despite the fact that at Christmas he chewed through the straps of my treasured Cath Kidston cowboy weekend bag.
I still love him despite the fact that just this morning he chewed the corner of my favourite Marimekko scarf that I brought back from yer actual Finland (home of the Marimekko loveliness) WHILST I WAS STILL WEARING IT.
Expensive tastes….I think. Grrrr!
Despite all the transgressions and the occasional and brief urge to take him back to the shop for a refund, I remain resolute: that dog is the making of the Flying Martinis. And anyone who don’t like my dog, can get tae Falkirk.
Which brings me onto a little annoyance that happened this week.
Sonny was present at a little birthday party. He likes a chocolate finger as much as any kid would at a birthday tea. He likes to loiter with intent around the table offering birthday treats. He also likes to hopefully cruise by those with opposable thumbs who may be in possession of…. or even better, offer him a birthday treat. It’s a shame he isn’t allowed birthday treats but he lives in hope. Who can blame him?
What neither me or the dog was expecting was that one of the adult party guests would slap him sharply on the snout whenever he approached the table. This happened about four or five times. Oh and this was neither the birthday boy or the owner of the table. Not that being either of these people would have excused this behaviour.
I don’t hit my dog. It’s wrong. I believe you should not hit dogs anymore than you should hit children. A dog that has been hit is a dog that is more likely to bite in the future. I was very angry.
But I said nothing. I just tried to control him and keep him away from the dog abuser.
I don’t know why I didn’t wade in and tell him to keep his hands to himself. Not my style, I suppose: but I should have. I found out later that, after the last slapping, my sister had stepped in and done the job for me. And I thank her for that.
So I am annoyed on two counts; first at the bloke who hit my dog. But far more I am pissed off at myself. Why didn’t I take him to task?
I need to be more like my wee sister.
Sometimes you need to sweep social niceties aside and stand up for yourself (and your delinquent pup).
And also isn’t it the way it always goes, in the same way childless people tut and tell you how to control your children, that folk who know sweet FA about dogs always seem to know best when it comes to training a dog?
This is going to run and run. For about 14 years, I reckon.
Dog News
Welcome to Dog News: The news for dogs about dogs done in a dogged fashion. Doggy-style , if you wish.
“Misssy, how are getting on with that dog?” I hear you ask…
or,
“Enough crap about real issues, Misssy. Gosh, you’ve been a drag this past week, how’s the damn dog doing?”, I hear you murmur.
Well, it’s complicated, folks. In the name of brevity, am going to list the good and the bad.
The Good
1. Sonny can sit on command. (Except on frosty pavements, where he hovers one millimetre above nut freezing tarmac. Fair do’s.)
2. Sonny will leave an object (including food placed right on his front paws) on command until given it. Whether he can be trusted beside a full roast turkey, Christmas time will tell.
3. Sonny will roll over and play dead if you point your fingers like a pistol at him and shout, “Bang!” . A real crowd pleaser. It’s particularly funny if you do when he’s running full pelt towards you. May also work with real gun.
4. Sonny can dance in circles. Pointless, but entertaining.
5. Sonny will lie down on command. I can get the dog to do this, but Junior Misssy still won’t go to her bed…something ain’t right there.
6. Sonny uses the catflap to go out and wee in the garden. He also uses the catflap to run after the cats. The only time he won’t use it is if Harleyboy, our 15 year old bruiser cat (and Sonny’s nemesis), is waiting outside the flap (with a flick knife…probably)
7. Sonny can give a paw on command. Again pointless, but folk expect it. And who are we to disappoint?
8. Sonny comes back when called 99% of the time. Unless there’s a cat involved..in which case, you can forget it.
9. Sonny gets down, when asked. Not in a “Get down!” James-Brown-funky-kind-of-way. But it’s only a matter of time before that, too, is part of his repertoire.
10. Sonny is ignoring the Christmas tree, except to drink from the bucket it stands in.
11. Sonny will stay on command. He doesn’t like it, but he’ll do it.
12. Sonny is destroying heaps of kids toys we want to get rid of anyway. Want shot of that annoying talking Furbee? Feed it to the dog!
Die Furbee, Die! (He squeals as he’s mauled. Funny…)
13. My dog trainer, Billie, has pronounced Sonny super-smart and wants to move him up to the junior class. So proud. He’ll be on University Challenge soon.
14. Sonny is beautiful. But you knew that.
The Not so good
1. Sonny can get too excited and run about the place like a dervish. Always when you’ve a hot cup of tea.
2. Sonny chases my two little girl cats. The lady cats have simultaneously asked for swords in their Santa letters. Harley-boy already has his own.
3. Sonny previously slept all night at the bottom of Indy’s bed, but this week seems to think it’s a laugh to creep through to mine and Meester’s bedroom and lick my face at 4am. I am now immune to most germs.
4. Sonny is teething. Nothing is safe. We won’t be putting presents under the tree. For if we did, we may as well set them on fire in the garden.
5. Sonny pulls on the lead. This is my biggest bug bear. I have arms like Gillian McKeith.
Things are so bad, I have turned to YouTube for help.
See here:
Super Dog training man in action
Check the comments on the clip.
I have asked the dog training guy for help and he has responded! He is making us a special video to show us how to crack the pulling problem. God, I love the internet!
By way of return I am going to show him the results on YouTube when Sonny and I finally can amble and sashay leisurely around the place.
“Watch this space” as they say when they don’t have a clue how to end a post.
If CSI came to the House of the Flying Martinis
It’s dark. The scene is a house on a hill. Police cars are everywhere and the house is cordoned off. There is a small crowd of neighbours watching the comings and goings of the CSI team.
Gil Grissom arrives in his SUV and grabs his bag before entering the dark house. As he enters, he switches on his flashlight as it looks moodier.
“Grissom, you’re here. Good.” says Brass, “We’ve got a possible B and E, but no sign of anyone else on the premises. Just this smell and this mess.”
He gestures to a couch that has been ripped apart. There is foam and stuffing everywhere. A child’s Baby Annabel toy doll is lying on the floor, still blinking and calling for mama, but with her innards ripped out.
“And the family?”
“Go by the name of the Flying Martinis. No real previous. Married, two kids. All gone.”
“I see, who was first on the scene?” Grissom asks.
“I was” says Sara, looking up from swabbing an area of carpet, “No bodies, no inhabitants, just this mess…and that smell”
“Have you found anything?”
“Traces of urine…not human. Animal, maybe?” she says with a business like air, unsuccessfully trying to mask the sexual tension between her and Grissom .
Greg Sanders suddenly rushes in the front door, “I’ve just come from the back garden. For want of a better word, it’s carnage, Grissom. Plants are eaten, lawn’s all ripped up, there’s broken household items everywhere; I’ve never seen anything like it. No bodies, but there’s woman’s underwear under a bush. It doesn’t make sense.”
Footsteps are heard overhead.
“Who’s upstairs?” asked Grissom who has felt the vibrations, not hearing the noise, given that career-threatening inner ear problem.
“Catherine, she’s looking into the possibility of the underwear belonging to a stripper.”
“Why’s that? Do you think it might have something to do with all this?” asks Grissom, confused.
“ Nah, it just wouldn’t be the same without Catherine revisiting her old stripper days, It’s kinda what she does in the show” remarks Brass.
“Yeah, and we get to have a flashback to her in her heyday. Something for the Dads, isn’t that right Brass?” says Nick entering the room looking foxy.
“You said it” Brass says with cheeky smile.
Grissom moves upstairs to see Catherine.
“What are you getting Catherine?”
“I’ve been swabbing the bedroom and the upstairs bathroom. I’m getting traces of urine. But what’s strange…”
“Is that it’s not human?” offers Grissom.
“How did you know?”
“Sara’s downstairs reporting traces of animal urine. The lab will tell us more. What else ya got?”
“Well, there’s a lot of toys everywhere, all of them completely destroyed. Whoever did this is outta control. I’m thinking psychotic.” Catherine says as she shakes her head.
All of a sudden there’s a commotion downstairs.
“Grissom! Get down here! Someone, call the SWAT team!” yells Brass.
The team are faced with a black and white beast leaping about the living room.
“Well” says Grissom with his customary opening scene pun, “Looks like this place has gone to the dogs…”
Cue: “Who are you?” by the Who and Opening Titles.
