Dear Sir,

Please find attached a copy of my cat's memoirs, entitled 'Pony Tales: My struggle with personality disorder' ...

Please find attached. Find. It implies some sort of a challenge, doesn't it - go on, then, find the attachment. If you can.

Is it behind the address book? No, not there. Is it hidden in a drop-down menu? Try again! Lift the flaps, kiddies, it's in there somewhere. But don't tell your parents; it's our special secret.

Oh! There it is. It was hiding behind a talking paper clip.

What jolly good fun!

How is it possible that I am frolicking daily through this veritable funfair of etherworld parlour games, yet work is not fun? It simply doesn't make sense. Perhaps it is because I am left with no proof at the end of each weary day that there was any fun at all. I need to be getting in there with a cyber butterfly net, scooping out the joy from each and every email carnival-ride and then, and then what? I'll NAIL the fucker to a board and whack it on a nice wall in the corridor to remind myself of all that motherfrolicking FUN I had.

Carefully tagged.

Specimen: Fun.

It would be swirling with colour, shimmering with the possibilities that the day holds.

I wonder what Specimen: Early Morning would look like. It'd be limp and sickly grey with crusty eyes, a very specific shade of dead, but it'd emit an endless stream of moaning babble telling you lots of useful things like "my shoe is up a tree, you need to call Mr Antenna" or "gargle with the custard. Gargle with the custard!"

Early mornings are fantasic like that. Half the people striding the corridors of insane asylums, or whatever you're supposed to call them now - Mental Health Happy Joy Houses of Hooray - are probably not insane at all. They just didn't get enough sleep. Give them a nice mug of warm Milo, a proper support pillow and a good fifteen hours to work through the REM stage and you'll probably find they're fine in the morning.

I don't know what I'm saying or why I'm saying it.

And surely that's at least a by-product of fun in some circles.

---

Things that made me happy (at least partly) this last couple of days:

- The fact that my love for the surreal seems to be rubbing off on those close enough to me to realise I have one in the first place.

Having had a sizeable chunk of my foot sliced off by my husband's toenail during an otherwise intimate moment in bed, I was later wiping off blood and applying sticky liniments when I called out suddenly: "Pigeon, your toenail scraping is still REALLY ITCHY." Because it was, you know. His response was this:

"I'm sorry. That's probably because I lacquer my toenails with cat spit."

- The possibility of staying in a hotel in Nuremberg opposite where Albrecht D�rer lived, while I am in Germany with my mother in September. (I have always been an admirer of D�rer's woodcut prints and, for no reason I can adequately explain, his unique monogram signature. If you're not a fan of 16th-century religious work, at least have a look at Rhinocervs in that link.)