Dear Mum,
thank you for the food you bring, and for that little catnip thing...
You keep my litterbox so clean, even on day's when I'm mean.
You let me nap on your clean clothes.
You listen to my cries and woes.
You keep my food bowl full each day,
now I will never fade away...
You check on me throughout the day,
just to know that I'm okay.
A cat mum's work is never done,
I'm very glad you are my mum.
Love,
your cats <3
THE HARE WHO LOST HIS SPECTACLES!
By Jethro Tull
Owl loved to rest quietly whilst no one was watching.
Sitting on a fence one day, he was surprised when suddenly a Kangaroo ran close by.
Now this may not seem strange, but when Owl overheard Kangaroo whisper to no one in particular, "Hare has lost his spectacles," well, he began to wonder
Presently, the Moon appeared from behind a cloud, and there, lying on the grass, was Hare.
In the stream that flowed by the grass, a Newt.
And sitting astride a twig of a bush, a Bee.
Ostensibly motionless, Hare was trembling with excitement, for without his spectacles he appeared completely helpless!
Where were his spectacles? Could someone have stolen them? Had he mislaid them? What was he to do?
Bee wanted to help, and thinking he had the answer began:
"You probably ate them, thinking they were a carrot."
"No!" interrupted Owl, who was wise. "I have good eyesight, insight, and foresight. How could such an intelligent hare make such a silly mistake?"
But all this time, Owl had been sitting on the fence, scowling!
Kangaroo was hopping mad at this sort of talk. She thought herself far superior in intelligence to the others. She was their leader, their guru, she had the answer: "Hare, you must go in search of the optician!"
But then she realized that Hare was completely helpless without his spectacles. And so, Kangaroo loudly proclaimed:
"I can't send Hare in search of anything!"
"You can Guru, you can!" shouted Newt. "You can send him with Owl!"
But Owl had gone to sleep.
Newt knew too much to be stopped by so small a problem. "You can take him in your pouch!"
But alas, Hare was much too big to fit into Kangaroo's pouch.
All this time, it had been quite plain to Hare that the others knew nothing about spectacles
As for all their tempting ideas, well Hare didn't care...
The lost spectacles were his own affair!
And after all, hare did have a spare a-pair!
A-pair!
*****************************
¡Esta es la HISTORIA del CONEJO que PERDIÓ los QUEVEDOS!
Traducción de Sandra Dermark
A Búho le encantaba reposar tranquilo mientras nadie le observaba. Estando posado sobre una valla un día, le sorprendió ver de repente a Cangura pasar, pegando saltos, muy de cerca.
Esto no podrá parecer raro, pero cuando Búho escuchó que Cangura le susurraba a nadie en particular: “Conejo ha perdido los quevedos…” Bien, entonces sí que empezó a hacerse preguntas.
Entonces la luna despuntó por detrás de las nubes y allí, tumbado en la hierba, estaba Conejo. En el riachuelo que discurría entre la hierba… Ajolote. Y posada a horcajadas sobre una ramita de un arbusto… Abeja.
A primera vista inmóvil, Conejo estaba temblando de la tensión, ya que sin sus quevedos estaba completamente indefenso. ¿Dónde tenía los quevedos? ¿Los había robado alguien? ¿Los había extraviado él? ¿Qué iba a hacer?
Abeja quería ayudar, y, creyendo tener la respuesta, intervino: “Tal vez te los comiste, tomándolos por… zanahorias”.
“¡No!” interrumpió Búho, que era sabio. “Tengo buena visión, reflexión y previsión. ¿Cómo podría un conejo tan listo cometer tamaña estupidez?” Pero todo el rato, Búho había estado posado en la valla, ¡poniendo mala cara!
Cangura estaba que pegaba saltos de la rabia con tal conversación. Se consideraba a sí misma muy superior en inteligencia a los otros animales. Era su líder, podría decirse. Ella tenía la respuesta: “Conejo, ¡debes ir en busca de la óptica!”
Pero entonces, se dio cuenta de que Conejo estaba completamente indefenso sin sus quevedos. Así que Cangura proclamó en voz alta: “¡NO PUEDO ENVIAR A CONEJO EN BUSCA DE NADA!”
“¡Tú puedes, Cangura, TÚ PUEDES!”, gritaba Ajolote. “Le puedes enviar con Búho”.
Pero Búho se había dormido. Ajolote sabía demasiado como para que le detuviera un problemilla tan pequeño. “Le puedes llevar en tu marsupio”. Pero, por desgracia, Conejo era demasiado grande y no cabía en el marsupio de Cangura.
Durante todo el rato, estaba claro como el agua para Conejo que los demás no sabían nada sobre quevedos.
Y en lo que respecta a todas sus ideas,
ninguna le podía importar…
¡Perder quevedos era su forma de ocupar
el tiempo, y, después de todo, tenía
recambios!
Every birthday is a day to celebrate.
Today on the 31st of January 2025 I have turned 33, the age when Jesus Christ was crucified. I am a mature adult, but still fond of fairytales, anime and the like. My life so far, with its ups and downs, has been a great life, though there are things I wish to that I could never have.
I have received congratulations from friends and family, lots of lovely presents, and a delicious tiramisu cake. It has been my best birthday in my life so far.
We cannot see the future, no matter if we read our tarot cards, but only confront it with lots of optimism, as I do. I hope 2025 will be a good year with lots of lovely experiences.
Let's have a great year and enjoy whatever fate brings!
Today is the birthday of Scottish poet Robert Burns, who famously wrote the Address to a Haggis. Therefore, haggis is traditionally served and carved ritually this evening for supper in the UK. However, not everyone understands the Burns poem that the carver recites with gusto during the ritual.
Here is the poem with a free commentary.
ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang ‘s my arm.
| May good fortune attend your honest jolly face, O King of Puddings.
|
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o’ need,
While thro’ your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
A large haggis, steaming on a plate and with its juices exuding from its pores,
| Is a truly magnificent sight. Furthermore, in an emergency,
|
His knife see Rustic-labour dight,
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Taking a clean sharp knife,
The farm labourer cuts the haggis open with a skilful stroke,
|
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.
Scots, when eating haggis,
|
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
This verse is severely critical of continental cuisine.
In the interest of continuing harmonious relationships within the EEC,
no attempt will be made to be more explicit.
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
The poet asserts that such foreign fare will never lead to full physical development.
| In particular, he implies that non-haggis eating nations have a negligible chance of achieving the Grand Slam
|
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ heads will sned,
Like taps o’ thrissle.
On the other hand, a haggis fed farmer
|
Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!
That effeminate foreign delicacies will not sell well in Scotland.
|
There were shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of Every Flavour Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Ron had mentioned; along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets: Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-colored bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (“Breathe fire for your friends!”), Ice Mice (“Hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”), peppermint creams shaped like toads (“Hop realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons.
