Climate Change and shit

Boy, am I sick of the rain. It’s been raining every day here in Sydney for days now. The rain can’t even be bothered to fall now. It just hangs there in a haze; trillions of tiny droplets of sogginess floating in the atmosphere, waiting for people to get out off buses so it can ruin their hair and dew up their coats. People at work keep making cracks about how I must be feeling at home, being English, etc etc. I try and explain that no, I actually don’t like depressing weather. I am a climate refugee. If I was still in England I might be a suicide by now.

By the way, climate (change) refugees are going to be the new big issue pretty soon. I know this because I went to a talk about politics and the environment at the University of New South Wales the other day. (Just because I think ‘Dark Lover’ is a rollicking good read, doesn’t mean I’m completely stupid). Our brave leaders want to keep us busy obsessing over Islamic terrorists whilst we destroy our environment. And then in ten years’ time, thousands of displaced islanders are going to get very angry over how we fiddled while their islands sank (please excuse the confused metaphors) and decide to get even. Even now, you can see displaced Pacific Islanders in Sydney. Their islands are sinking! And Australian politicians – John Howard, *spit* *spit* - smugly tell the us they don’t intend to do anything to reduce carbon emissions, because it might harm the glorious economy and the middle class would have to exist on one BMW per household instead of two. Tell that to the Islanders - I wonder how sympathetic they’d be.

The Man had a big shock this morning. The kitty had left him a special gift in his wardrobe, on a clean shirt. No, not a dead something. A gift of the fecal variety. He discovered when he reached into the dark bowels (heh heh) of his wardrobe for the shirt and found himself clutching something squishy. Gruesome! The incident lends itself to lots of funny jokes (funny to me) but it's also disturbing, because now we have to wonder if she’s crapped anywhere else, somewhere worse, like on my clothes. I am fearful for the sanctity of my lily-white underthings! All wardrobe doors and drawers will remain firmly shut from now on.

Actually, I must admit to being a bit perplexed as to how it got there. I know, I know, I can do the maths – kitty treats + cat bottom = squishy surprise. I just don’t understand when. Two mornings ago we did indeed discover her asleep in the Man’s wardrobe. And very cute she looked, too. A year ago he’d have gone mad, but I think the Man was struck by how adorable she looked, curled up cosily on his shirts, fast asleep. It was quite the ‘awwwww’ moment. Now I’m assuming she couldn’t have done the dirty deed then, because since when do cats relax in their own faeces? The Man reckons she did it last night, to punish him because he wouldn’t let her sleep there again. But that makes no sense either! Surely she couldn’t have opened the door, climbed in, crapped, climbed out, and closed the door after herself. Are cats really that clever? And that strong?

I bet you thought the title of this post contained gratuitous swearing, didn’t you?