Nest cat

It’s Friday, so it’s time for a Tinkerbell Toggie. She’s become a lover of finding obscure places to curl up and make nests, and here we’ve disturbed her reveries just as she was looking ever so cute.


Five little words

Damn, I’m in one of those places that can’t decide if it’s a public house or a care home. The warning sign is always there when you walk in and they ask those toxic five words, “have you eaten here before?” Why, I ask, do you give me a miniature garden fork and trowel to eat with? Do I recline like a Roman? Is the meal pureed and served through a straw?
Actually, any of those options are better than the robotic service and inane, unwanted interrogations that come your way. “Are you the gammon steak?” No, you stupid man, I’m a customer. “Enjoy your meal [imperative].” Don’t I get to choose? “Would you like this card so you can give us your personal details under the guise of telling us whether you enjoyed the meal but in reality you’re entering into a life-long relationship with our emotionally needy marketing department?” No, if I’m unhappy I’ll tell you and the least I should expect is specific performance of our contract: the beer is drinkable and the food is (a) cooked thoroughly and (b) matches the description on the menu.
And finally, don’t ask me how my day’s gone unless you are really, really interested and have twenty minutes to spare, because otherwise you’re being inauthentic and as fake as the lookee-likee English country pub translated to the space between Ikea and the M8 motorway which, in truth, is what you are.
So how was your meal, Mr Mackie?