Skinky and the Brain

I am notorious for not opening emails.

For the last year, I have watched in idle fascination and some considerable dread, the count steadily reaching  thousands and then escalate way beyond it. I scan the senders name and think spam, scam, and damn. 

If there is something that piques my inherent curiosity I will idly tap it, speed read the relevant details and file it under one of three imaginary folders –

Must read soon/ later/ never.

More and more, the never option is being utilized. 

I need a P.A. I think, and file that thought too in the dimmest darkest reaches of my mind, to be considered at a later date.  Any email that begins with Hello, Dear is from a Nigerian in a smoky internet café in Lagos, idly fanning himself, as he composes convoluted messages seeking to extract either a promise of a liaison/visa/Bank Account details.

 There must be a veritable army of them tap, tap, tapping away at sticky keyboards randomly reaching out to anyone they think is a possible mark. 

This explains why I also never believe that I have won the lotto, and why I stopped reading messages marked URGENT about penis enlargers and special offers on bulk shipments of Viagra.

Ditto chat on facebook.

It is always turned off so that I do not have to tell a hundred odd strangers how I am, or reply to how are things and hello dear at any given moment. 

All those boxes at the bottom of my screen were also slowing down the speed of my antique laptop, so much so that it would have been quicker to actually fly to Lagos than wait for the page to load.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the message box with a little indicator on it to inform I have new mail. It has the words  lovely, Chihuahua and free in it. 

My interest is piqued.

-          Hmmmmm - *thinking quietly* have you a pic? I type.

The woman is a friend of mine, who  is operating on behalf of a friend of hers, who is operating on behalf of a friend of hers.

Are you keeping up? 

 I inform that if I actually see it, I will be honour bond to say yes in a heartbeat or a New York minute.

And yet, I task her with the project by ordering her to get on it like a bonnet, while mentioning that a deal breaker will be that it is house trained as I have no time for lakes of piss. 

Then, for some strange reason I send a huge emoticon of a giant laughing face with its tongue out, swiftly followed by a huge emoticon of a giant crying face with tears pouring down it.

-          What’s his name all? I type immediately.

I read her monosyllabic response.

-          Walter? How precious !!!! I will sleep on it and get back to you k ?

She sends me a photo of the abovementioned Walter in a red checked coat standing on a kitchen unit looking like he owns the gaff.

-          Ah, Jesus. I even love the coat.

Then I send her an emoticon of an animated cat on a moped. I have no idea why. I tell her I will sleep on it. She tells me that she can just see me on the Main Street in Town with Walter in my handbag.

Then I send her an emoticon of an animated cat collapsed sideways with a ball of wool in its mouth. Again, no clue.

 It goes quiet then for a number of days as all the women get down to business. My friend, getting in touch with her friend, and her friend ditto. The sporadic news about the canine Walter, the lines of text, the messages, the lifts, the cars that broke down, the never ending quest to remove Walter from one home, and install him in another. 

The days come and go until I start to convince myself that all of this was a figment of my imagination and log in to see the photo again

I wonder if Walter will like it here – I muse aloud to he who must not be named.

The emoticons have changed now, from animated cats to a cartoon of a small dark haired woman with a ring of stars around her, looking hopeful, or sitting on a stairs looking afraid, with a  yellow moon peeping in the window.  Finally, just  looking sad with a kitten putting its paw out. The cats are back.

 A half starved feral cat I have christened Skinky Malinky has adopted me. I managed to engage its attention and cupboard love by flinging a packet of ham in its skeletal face and running away. I am allergic to cats and asthmatic. I had been listening to its intermittent crying for a week, like a cross between a soft child and a Banshee.

-          Christ, who has moved in over there with a cat? – I thought.

-          Christ, who has moved out  over there without a cat? – I thought.

-          There is more meat on a butcher’s pencil – I thought.

Skinky Malinky

I have become a walking cliche. 

A stream of hooting beeping cars and vans with laughing drivers waving and pointing heralded my progress across the streets in the lashing rain.

 I am taking Walter to see the other  main man, Little Thomasina.

 One is peppering because some numbskull has put diesel in a petrol engine. 

The other is peppering because he is in a handbag.In one week I have gone from a lone female to one who has a bag of cat food (donated) AND a bag of dog food in the back hall. The tiny Walter eventually manifested here by a circuitous route a Hollywood re-writer on cocaine couldn’t orchestrate. There was a round robin of calls, emails, messages and texts and a hare brained drive across a sleeping city with an exhausted woman – who despite shrieking for her bed – managed to keep her patience, her temper and her eyes on the road. Walter Eugene Mincealot Baxter iii arrived with his own wardrobe, bedding, cage and toys.

I have morphed into a middle aged, overweight woman who has a Chihuahua wearing a coat, a cat mewling on a wall, and am one step away from eating peppermints and putting hankies up my sleeve.

Walter Fupping Baxter has a Gregory Peck the size of a HB pencil and is wearing a cat collar sans bell. Even I am not that mental.

#houseisinbits