Cats on Heads

There is a picture on the front of the Guardian magazine today of Morrissey with a tabby cat perched on his head.

'Do you think that cat is really sitting on Morrissey's head, or has it been superimposed in some kind of digital camera trickery?' I say to Andy, studying the picture carefully.
Andy didn't know. I had a thought.
'I could start a new web-site called www.catsonyourhead.com,' I say. 'Where people could send in pictures of themselves with cats on their heads. '
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be the new global phenomenon. You could write a book about it, too, called 'A Cat on My Head. A bit like when Tony Hawkes travelled around Europe with a fridge.'
'Don't expect me to sit on your head,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I don't know where you've been.'
'Talking of books,' I say, 'next Christmas, not this one because this year is Nearly King Jimbo year, we could do a book based on all the chicken blogs.'
'Yes,' says Andy.
'I'll pass you the name of our agent,' says Mrs Miggins. 'You can negotiate publication rights with him.'
'It's not Tango Pete, is it?' I say. 'Besides, I am your agent. And you chickens would be nothing without me and my writing talent.'
'HA!' says Miggins. 'Don't you believe it. If us chickens weren't around you'd be staring into the back garden writing about the rotary drier or that flipping buddleia you try to murder ever year which still keeps coming back.'
'I could write a story about a rotary drier,' I say.
'It wouldn't be very entertaining,' says Mrs Miggins.
'It might be if it had a cat or two pegged to it in a force ten gale,' says Mrs Slocombe, who, I have to say, got a little too much pleasure from that story a couple of weeks ago about the woman who put the cat in the bin.

I go back to studying the picture of Morrissey and the cat. It looks real. The shadow on the wall behind them looks very convincing. The cat looks a little like Pandora. I toy with the idea of putting Pandora on my head and getting Andy to take a picture. But she can be a little too useful with her claws during the dismount process, can Pandora, and I'm wearing a nice white blousy thing today.

Phoebe would stay put if balanced on my head, because she rarely moves these days unless the vacuum cleaner is after her. But I fear putting Phoebe on my head would be akin to balancing a heavy concrete ball, and it would put my neck out. Tybalt would probably stay put,too; petrified with fear and wondering what in the name of Beelzebub I was doing.

Balancing a bee on my head would just be asking for trouble.

And I don't want to be responsible for encouraging people to force cats to sit on their heads when the cats don't want to. Looking at Morrissey and his cat, they are clearly in tune with each other and the cat is used to perching and staying put . It looks a bit bandy legged; perhaps it is a particularly old cat that will sit anywhere and can't be bothered to move a la Phoebe but not so fat. Or perhaps it's a cat with vertigo and is clinging on to Morrissey's scalp for dear life and the look on Morrissey's face isn't one of concentrated benigness, it's one of 'This friggin' hurts but I can't scream because I don't want Guardian readers to think I'm a great big wuss, especially given my history of gladioli swinging.'

Ah well. Perhaps I'll try it later. After all, I am feeling slightly numb on paint fumes at the moment. Andy has added to the undercoat aroma by transferring three gallons of wine from the bucket where it's been fermenting all week into the demi-johns where it will continue to ferment, for despite the exploding wine episode of last Saturday, he is still determined to build up a sizeable wine cellar for Christmas and no doubt get totally rat-arsed whilst watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.

Which is understandable. I think I'd have to be pretty drunk to watch any more of Matt 'Potato Head' Smith playing the Doctor. Bring back Tennant, that's what I say.

Now, where have all the cats gone?

So that's our Christmas shopping dilemma sorted out for the next two years.