To be honest, I am not entirely sure what a mash-up is, except that it may or may not be something to do with music. The image I have is of a musical – or possibly visual, or whatever – Bubble & Squeak.
(If Bubble & Squeak turns out to be a purely British phenomenon – and just to add another layer of confusion – it’s a kind of fried mess of mashed potato and cooked cabbage – a tasty, greasy way of using up leftovers.)
So, if that’s what a mash-up is, this is a mash-up, and is indicative of a chilly, soggy Monday afternoon inability to string a coherent narrative together. Who cares? Just start with the rat and carry on.
Or maybe it should be the glasses…
OK, the glasses. This morning I was pottering around in the double nightie and hideous but comfortable and practical crocs…
(bother, now I will have to explain the double nightie… but can’t be bothered right now – Bubble & Squeak has exhausted me)
…feeding the five thousand cats, washing-up the five thousand feeding bowls from last night, drinking tasteless coffee, knitting a row or two and trying to unglue myself from the TV, where the nightmare mash-up of Brexit continues to play itself out – and I leant forward, and my glasses fell off and crashed to the floor. This in itself is not unusual, but this time, when I picked them up, I realised they were done for – not by the fall, but by the severing of some little piece of metal in the arm.
Sadly, I consigned them to the cardboard (ex-kettle) box under the sink marked Spex. Fortunately, I have two other pairs since I usually find myself compelled buy two (or more) of – whatever. This is a kind of nervous compulsion inherited from my mother, along with wisdom teeth painfully lacking a sense of direction, and one of those faces that looks miserable even though it feels perfectly normal – smiley, even – from the inside.
Which reminds me:
I watched a Christmas movie yesterday. I think it was called The Christmas Candle. I looked it up on Wikipedia whilst watching it – it was that boring – and it seems to have been a total turkey from 2013 or thereabouts. However, badness has never stopped me watching a film. By far the worst thing about it was Susan Boyle cast as some kind of Victorian churchwarden’s wife. The plot was so confusing I am still not sure why there needed to be a churchwarden’s wife in the film at all, but the worst thing was – she hardly moved – it was as if they had plonked her in a church pew and there she stayed, rigid in her poke bonnet, throughout the film and her face remained exactly the same. I know Susan has problems, but in that case why put her in a film where she is supposed to act, which she manifestly can not do? Why not get her up as an angel and let her just sing, something she does miraculously well?
And another thing it reminds me of – the rat.
I have often wondered whether men were really better than women at specific tasks, or whether it’s all a case of gender expectation. Handling dead things, for example. Is it a case that they are by nature more brave or less squeamish than women? Or is it maybe that they are better at disguising fear and disgust – putting on a poker face.
So, when I went down to feed the birds – in the drizzly rain and the double nightie – which I shall not explain – and I suspect in full view of the neighbours, but I no longer care – on my way to the bird table I nearly stepped on a poor, soggy dead rat with some sort of gaping, probably cat-inflicted wound in its neck. Part of me thought – just go indoors and forget about it. Sooner or later something will come and “take it away”, or maybe if I don’t go out there till spring, it will still be there but will have reduced itself to bones and be almost – handle-able.
But then, I thought, I will not be able to feed the birds, and I like to look at the birds out of my kitchen window. And then, Canadian Sister is coming to stay in early January, and if anyone is likely to tread on a dead rat and be totally freaked out by it, it is she. No, I must remove the rat.
And so – still in the double nightie and the crocs – armed with a plastic bag and a roll of kitchen paper, I forced myself to approach the corpse – rats are always much bigger than you expect, somehow – and not be sick, and reach out and wrap the paper round the rat and – ugh, it’s tail was all dangly and snakelike and cold and – ugh – put it in the plastic bag and throw it in the dustbin.
And it’s still in there, somewhere. Supposing it wasn’t dead but, revived by the warmth of all those recycling sacks full of fermenting cat-litter, somehow came back to life? And when I next open the bin lid, will it jump up, all hideous wound and cold tail, and…
I was looking for new genre to write a story in. Maybe I’ve found it…