Pining For the Fjords
(S)he’s not pining, (s)he’s passed on!
Naw, naw, naw, (s)he’s restin’. Remarkable bird, the Norwegian Blue. Beautiful plumage.
And etc. (Yes, I can regurgitate the entire thing. Don’t get me started.) I just wanted to
register a complaint point out that assumptions of my demise, while entirely reasonable, are in fact erroneous.
I have just had a truly colossal case of writer’s block. The kind you can see from outer space.
But I figured I could at least share this, because it makes me positively giddy (dreadful tinny sort of word … bound, vole, recidivist … sorry, I’m digressing again).
When I tell you that my gelding Spike’s registered name is, in fact, Norwegian Blue, you will begin to fathom the depth of my appreciation for a 50 foot fibreglass parrot in Potter’s Fields in London. Click the link already or I shall be forced to taunt you a second time.
One of my cats is Arthur, King of the Kittens.