STEWED PETS

If you had asked me years ago what I thought I would be doing now, it certainly would not have been working the credit and collections desk of a small to medium sized manufacturer headquartered in San Francisco.

Ten years ago I would probably not even have been able to answer the question.
Twenty years ago I would have thought in terms of office manager, psychopath, or famous writer.

Thirty years ago, if I could have gotten my mind out of the gutter for a moment, the answer would have been painting, or illustrating children's books.

And four decades ago I would have said 'emperor of the world'.

Yep. That's me. Atboth the First, feared by my enemies, beloved by my people.
Risen to the top by the sheer force of personality. And genius.


IT'S REALLY ABOUT THE VINDALOO

When I was still a child I didn't have a very realistic view of myself or of the world.
It's taken a while, but I think I am a little more realistic now.
That does not mean that what I would really like to be doing is any closer to the real world, however.
Perhaps not emperor of the world, but something equally impressive.
And preferably also involving small animals.

What's the point of being emperor of the world if you cannot have access to small animals?
Small animals are a very good thing.

Office workers do not need small animals, and due to the constraints of their occupations, they necessarily must neglect the little critters for hours at a stretch - they're at work, and most modern job environments frown upon bringing your owls and marmots to work.
Upon leaving in the evening for a night of riotous behaviour, which means imbibing at the sports bar and lollygagging at the railroad tracks, joshing with the lads, you bid your small animals a fond farewell, oblivious to their pleading eyes, which seem to say "but Bob (or Joe, or Dingo), you've only been home for half an hour! We haven't seen you for an entire day! And you barely finished your vindaloo teevee dinner!"

It's very sad. Later, when you come stumbling in at three o'clock in the morning with a trashy blonde on your arm, your owl hoots at you, and your marmots look at you reproachfully. You've been out for seven hours! They've been all alone! With only the Housewives of New Jersey to keep them company!
It's free with cable subscription!
How could you!

Just before eight o'clock A.M., you and the painted woman (turns out the blonde hair has mousy-brown roots, slightly streaked with grey) wake up in a panic.
My heavens! Gotta be at work by nine! Hurry!
You rush out, barely shaven, both of you still faintly reeking of the cheap eau de cologne with which your night-time best friend had doused herself sixteen hours earlier, and your animal companions glare balefully at your departing rumpled backs.

At six o'clock that evening you return, to discover that the marmots are now little scattered bones, picked clean of all flesh. And your owl tells you, in no uncertain terms, "I had to, you bastard - you didn't feed me for five days!"

Sadly, as you roast the owl over the open flame of the last working burner on your stove, you resolve to be a reformed person.
Kinder. More considerate. More responsible, too.
They were such nice marmots. Plump, too.
But not quite tonight.
Tonight, you'll limit your drinking to single malt, not the cheap well whisky.
You know what happens when you drink those five dollar shots.
Blonde floozies, and charred owl for dinner.
Drink less, but far better.
It's a start.


And that, my friends, is why I still want to be emperor of the world.
Or something equally impressive.

I really care about the small animals.



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