Mog is Murder

I get home from work and find a trail of feathers in the hall. Bloody feathers. And a pleased looking cat. And where the recycling box lives, a dead pigeon. A bloody huge bloody pigeon. It was about the size of Mog, the murdering cat. Given that she has trouble getting herself through the catflap minus a pigeon, I can only speculate, but given the blood smeared around the catflap, it must have taken a while, and involved a good degree of force. You'd have to admire her dedication if you didn't have to clean up all the blood and feathers and dispose of the corpse.

I'm no fan of pigeons (Carrier pigeons? Yeah, as in carrier of disease. Arf.), but being confronted with the logical result of my hatred humbled me. My murdering cat has proved the error of my hatred, and I now love pigeons and do not wish them even the slightest harm, even if they are useless, ugly, disease-splattered, noisy shit-fer-brains who are so fat, deformed and lazy that they scarcely ever bother to fly, and when they do it's with the least amount of hight possible, so you always have to end up ducking otherwise you get a face full of pigeon beak, which is an experience I never want to have. So, yes, I'm over my pigeon hatred, thanks to the wise example of my murdering cat.

And now she's chasing a fly round the flat with the intention of killing it to death, like the poor unmourned pigeon.

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Having a mobile phone with internet access is dangerous, especially if you're bored. After a heated discussion (a mass debate, if you will) over the weekend about whether Islam frowned on masturbation (and most thought it probably would), I was emailed the definitive answer, which is how I came to be sat in a meeting with, in large bold letters, the words 'Masturbation in Islam' sat on my phone. And I'd've had a job explaining them, as I said I was just going to check on the cricket score.

Fortunately, I currently remain unsacked.