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Bushy
We went up to Highgate for a pub lunch and drinks and subsequently a walk through Highgate park and then on to Hampstead Heath. We saw a squirrel.
A grey squirrel, just a run-of-the-mill squirrel.
Pix acted as if this was the rodent equivalent of a multiple orgasm with a big bushy tail.
"Its a squirrel!"
Yes, a squirrel.
"A squiirel!"
We've established that, shall we keep walking?
"A squirrel! Here squirrel"
It probably has rabies, can we just keep going?
"Its a squirrel!"
Having firmly established the squirrelous nature of the beast beyond any shadow of a doubt, as if the profile and behavior hadn't made it eye-bleedingly obvious what the damned little rat was, she then proceded to kneel down on the grass and try and attract it over.
"He wants food"
Maybe he'll enjoy leaping for your jugular and tearing out your throat, don't expect me to remove the little bugger if he sinks his teeth deep into your neck.
"Give him something"
Me, D, the walking healthfood store. I tossed it a Polo mint. The squirrel sniffed it, didn't enjoy the smell of peppermint and bounced across the grass elsewhere.
"He didn't like that. You should have had some real food."
This from the woman who stabbed me with a fork three times already today and I'm supposed to be packing ready-to-eat squirrel food. This post was written in the spirit of Mo Morgan, whom I am convinced has similar conversations with his partner Katie Norton.
In other news we've decided where we're eventually going to move to. We like Hamster... sorry, Hampstead. Tune in next Friday to see if we're going to be moving there anytime soon.
Apr. 7.2002