Well, here we are again in front of the TV on a beautiful sunlit Sunday in Rome with that nyeeerrrrr, nyeeerrrrr sound of the Grand Prix cars (not to mention the hysterical announcer that drives me right up the curtains) putting me sweetly to sleep; except when Alonso (in the Ferrari, naturally, because if there weren’t any Ferraris in the race, papa probably would be watching other sports) passes Vettel and papa yells (like when Totti scores) but then the Ferrari falls back to second and we’re at the same place again, so I snooze.
Actually, I watch lots of things on TV with papa because I like to chase the movement on the screen even if I know it’s inane. It’s when I try to bat at the cars or myow at those kitties in all the cat food ads that I’m told nicely to ‘get down’ or ‘lie down’ or ‘no, no’ and so I do, because I am a very polite and well-brought-up kitty. Or so they think….
But when they go out for a drink in the piazza or when they are sleeping like dogs, haha, I tear around the house with my little fake mouse, turn somersaults on the parquet and flip over all the little rugs that line the hall.
Then they wake up and start asking one another, ‘Was it you who flipped over the rugs?” “No, not me, but was it you who knocked all the laundry off of the washer?” “Are you kidding; I was asleep! And who buttered that piece of bread and ate half of it?” And so it goes.
Meanwhile, I am sitting on my petit point-covered piano bench doing a little discreet bidet, looking innocent as a kitten, and thinking, “When the bigs are away, the smalls will play” or “What they don’t know can’t hurt them” and all those clichés you hear and wish you could re-word, but it’s hard.
They still have not figured out who put all those extra holes in the Emmenthaler and they certainly can’t ask each other about who threw the cat litter all over the bathroom!
Back to Bahrain….
