I’m now certified to perform acts of reckless cruelty on children and adults—by teaching them English. My certificate for teaching essentials by British Council arrived electronically today. For my certificate, I was forced to submit to acts of extreme cruelty myself by participating in a moderated online course. It was moderately horrendous, as most things in life—why, yes, of course I’m a negativist.
Whether I approve or not, I now perfectly understand why many of my teachers were frustrated individuals who were relieving themselves by torturing children in class. No need to be alarmed though, I’m not seeking a full-time lifelong career in education. I’ve just become addicted to collecting diplomas of little practical purpose besides their potential to be used as a wallpaper when redecorating.
Today is the grand day when I, for the first time in my memory, cooked a dish which was marginally edible. I hate cooking, but I love eating and since I grew tired of cold buffet meals, I was reduced to attempt the wooden spoon. Typically, I produce versions of tasteless pasta, hard rice, overcooked vegetables and burnt meat. I’m hysterical about undercooking food, except rice, because no self-respecting food should take more than fifteen minutes to prepare.
I made wild rice and roasted pork cubes today. The rice improved a lot by having been boiled for twenty-five minutes, as suggested in the instructions on the box. I set my computer timer to measure the allotted time and went blogging. While multitasking, I also put the meat on the pan, seasoned it with a pinch of all spices I have (I never have more than three kinds at a time) and stirred occasionally. (See what I’m doing here? I’m blogging a recipe!!) Unlike my usual, this time I didn’t wait for the meat to get black (at least not most of it), which radically enhanced its eatability.
The result was pleasantly shocking. I almost enjoyed the meal, though I fiercely hated cooking it. I won’t provide visual proof of my lunch because I’m the weird kind of person who eats her meals rather than taking pictures of it. Instead, see above for creepy wooden spoons. The scary effect is intentional. That’s how I feel about cooking.
This is about the cat. Again. But I swear it’s a cat story the like of which you never heard before.
My cat woke me up, as usual, at an ungodly (and unmanly) early hour of the morning, when she was amusing herself by chewing the blinds. I’m not at my finest when disturbed from sleep, so I was considering throwing a box of tissues in direction of the aggressor, but then I refrained from throwing something I might need later for myself. I just clapped my hands (the signal for the cat to stop, which I perform at any waking or sleeping state reflexively like Pavlov’s drooling dogs), and the cat, momentarily dissuaded, moved with audible snort of disgust to the other window.
The story starts here. Before I managed to tuck myself in again, the cat started to meow in the extremes of distress. My maternal (caternal) instincts made me instantly wide awake, and I jumped out of the bed quite athletically to check the kitty. Increasingly alarmed, I observed her curled up and choking violently. Has she chewed off and swallowed a piece of the blinds? She didn’t proceed to throw up, but instead slided from the window sill to the floor on three legs only. I was horrified. What’s happened to her paw? And then I saw she had her paw in her mouth, stuck inside by her nail.
Wondering if my cat was suicidal, I attempted to release her. To say that she didn’t cooperate is an understatement. After several failed attempts, I called nine one one (the cat version of it) on one line and suicide line on the other line. I assured the cat emergency that I wasn’t joking (the call girl, I mean the girl staff member, clearly doubted the credibility of my story), and I was advised to go on trying and call back. To cut the story short (while my agony was much longer), I did manage the free the dumb cat from herself. Seconds later she meowed at me in a friendly manner and went on to crunch some dry food.
The cat survived intact, but I was badly shaken. Also, the cat nearly killed me in the process of killing herself, as I later discovered a long slash across my thigh incurred in the struggle. She had a near miss of my artery. I’ll need more Diazepam and a spare cat in case the current one commits suicide by gutting herself.
In response to Laura Feasey’s Literary Lion challenge: Pool.
The old man didn’t like doing that. But someone had to. It had been raining and the old corroded tub in the backyard was half-filled with dirty water. That would do. It was about time too. They were already starting to crawl, squealing like rats as they were stumbling and falling on their faces. Silly little things. He picked the nearest one and carried it to the tub. It shrank to half its size when immersed. Just like a wet rat. Two more to go. He really hoped that the cat wouldn’t have any more this season. One was enough.
The more I sleep, the more exhausted I feel. However, I’ve run out of food and I figured it wouldn’t boost my stamina to die of starvation. So, while yesterday I was high on Ibuprofen, today I administered Speed 8 (not the speed, but the ultimate legal mind and body stimulant) and unenthusiastically ventured out to get groceries.
I took a shortcut. Two, actually, if jaywalking also counts. (I’ve been very adventurous today, you see.) As some people would call it, I’m asking to be raped (or even worse, robbed) because I took the road less travelled. So little travelled, in fact, that you never meet anyone there.
I only met someone once in the shortcut. It was a group of young males, the prospect of which horrified me because I happened to be carrying home my new smartphone at that occasion. I was only partially relieved when the men approaching turned out to be Franciscan monks. My fears proved insubstantial, as they didn’t try to convert me.
Today I met no one in the shortcut, but I was met with loads of mud. This I anticipated, but I’d rather wade through mud than walk a bit farther than absolutely necessary. I was silly though to have taken Speed 8. I should’ve got me some Redbull, which gives you wings, so I could fly over the muddy stretch—or from door to door and back, for that matter.
This reminds me I have a broom at the terrace. I use it for snow shovelling for lack of better tools. Perhaps the broom could be converted into a flying machine even without the use of Redbull. After all, a cat I already have, so I’m half-witch. But I got taken away. Besides mud, I have nothing to report really. I know, right, what a disappointing story.